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.1 























WOMAJf’S TRIALS; 


OEL, 


TALES AND SKETCHES FROM THE LIFE 
AROUND. US. 


\ 



By T. S. AllTHUB. 


“NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 
14 (Sc 16 Vesey Street. 


4 


PREPAOB. 


cerns tJiem. If the perusal of this volume has such an 
effect upon the reader’s mind, it will accomplish all 
that its author desires; for right feelinfr is but the 
prompter to ripht actioiL. 


CONTENTS. 

FACTS 

A Lesson or Patience 7 

I Didn’t Think op That 26 

Taking Boarders 40 

Plain Sewing ; or, How to Encourage the Poor.. 123 

Jessie Hampton 184 

The New Year’s Gift 154 

Aunt Mart’s Preserving Kettle 170 

Home at Last 195 

Going Home 21) 





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^ A 







WOMAN’S TRIALS. 


A LESSON OF PATIENCE. 


I WAS very unhappy, from a variety of causes, de- 
finable and undefinable. My chambermaid had been 
cross for a week, and, by talking to my cook, had 
made her dissatisfied with her place. The mother 
of five little children, I felt that I had a weight of 
care and responsibility greater than I could support. 
I was unequal to the task. My spirits fell under 
its bare contemplation. Then I had been disap- 
pointed in a seamstress, and my children were, as 
the saying is, ‘^in rags.^^ While brooding over these 
and other disheartening circumstances, Netty, my 
chambermaid, opened the door of the room where I 
was sitting, (it was Monday morning,) and said — 

‘^Harriet has just sent word that she is sick, and 
can^t come to-day.^^ 

‘‘ Then you and Agnes will have to do the wash- 
ing,^^ I replied, in a fretful voice; this new source of 
trouble completely breaking me down. 


8 


A LESSON OF PATIENCE. 


<< Indeed, ma^am,'^ replied Netty, tossing her head 
and speaking with some pertness, / can’t do the 
washing. I didn’t engage for any thing but chamber- 
work.’^ 

And so saying she left me to my own reflections- 
I must own to feeling exceedingly angry, and rose 
to ring the bell for Netty to return, in order to tell 
her that she could go to washing or leave the house, 
as best suited her fancy. But the sudden recol- 
lection of a somewhat similar collision with a former 
chambermaid, in which I was worsted, and compelled 
to do my own chamber-work for a week, caused me 
to hesitate, and, finally, to sit down and indulge in 
a hearty fit of crying. 

When my husband came home at dinner time, 
things did not seem very pleasant for him, I must 
own. I had on a long, a very long face — much longer 
than it was when he went away in the morning. 

Still in trouble, I see, Jane,” said he. wish 
you would try and take things a little more cheerfully. 
To be unhappy about what is not exactly agreeable 
doesn’t help the matter any, but really makes it 
worse.” 

^^If you had to contend with what I have to con- 
tend with, you wouldn’t talk about things being ecc- 
actly ayreeaUe” I replied to this. It is easy enough 
to talk. I only wish you had a little of my trouble; 
you wouldn’t think so lightly of it.” 

^^What is the great trouble now, Jane?” said my 


A LESSON OF PATIENCE. 


9 

husband, without being at all fretted with m3 in- 
amiable temper. ^‘Let us hear. Perhaps I can .jUg* 
gest a remedy.^' 

you will get me a washerwooian, you will ex 
ceedingly oblige me/^ said I. 

Where is Harriet?” he asked. 

^^She is sick, or pretends to be, I donH know 
which.” 

Perhaps she will be well enough to do your wash- 
ing to-morrow,” suggested my husband. 

Perhaps is a poor dependence.” 

I said this with a tartness that ill repaid my hus- 
band^s effort to comfort me. I saw that he felt the 
unkindness of my manner, in the slight shade that 
passed over his face. 

CanH you get some one else to do your washing 
this week ?” 

I made no reply. The question was easily asked. 
After that, my husband was silent, — silent in that 
peculiar way that I understood, too well, as the effect 
of my words, or tones, or state of mind. Here was 
another cause for unhappiness, in the reflection that 
I had disturbed my husband’s peace. 

I am sure that I did not much look like a loving 
wife and mother as I presided at the dinner table 
that day. The children never seemed so restless 
and hard to manage; and I could not help speaking 
to them, every now and then, ^*as if I would take 
their heads off;” but to little good effect 


10 


A LESSON OF PATIENCE. 


After my husband went away on finishing his 
dinner, I went to bed, and cried for more than 
half the afternoon. Oh ! how wretched I felt I Life 
seemed an almost intolerable burden. 

Then my mind grew more composed, and I tried 
to think about what was to be done. The necessity 
for having the clothes washed was absolute; and this 
roused me, at length, as the most pressing domestic 
duty, into thinking so earnestly, that I presently 
rang the bell for Netty, who came in her own good 
time. 

Tell Agnes that I want to see her,'' said I, not 
in a very good-natured way. 

The effect was that Netty left the chamber with- 
out replying, and slammed the door hard after her, 
which mark of disrespect set my blood to boiling. 
In a little while my cook made her appearance. 

Agnes," said I, ‘^do you know of any one that 
I can get to do the washing this week ?" 

Agnes thought for a few moments, and then re- 
plied — 

There's a poor woman who lives near my 
mother's. I think she goes out to wash sometimes." 

wish you would step round and see if she can't 
eome here to-morrow." 

Agnes said that she would do so. 

^^Tell her she must come," said T. 

Very well, ma'am.'’ 

And Agnes withdrew. 


A LESSON OP PATIENCE. 


11 


In an hour she came back^ and said that she had 
seen the woman; who promised to come. 

What is her name I asked. 

** Mrs. Partridge,^' was answered. 

" You think she wonH disappoint me ?** 

Oh, no, ma'am. I don't think Mrs. Partndge 
is the kind of a woman to promise and then disap- 
point a person." 

It was some relief to think I was going to get my 
washing done; but the idea of having the ironing 
about all the week fretted my mind. And no sooner 
was this leading trouble set aside, than I began to 
worry about the children's clothes, and the prospect 
of losing my cook, who had managed my kitchen 
more to my satisfaction than any one had ever done 
Oefore. 

The promise for a pleasant hour at home was but 
little more flattering to my husband, when he re- 
turned in the evening, than it had been at dinnei 
time. I was still in a sombre mood. 

In the morning Mrs. Partridge came early and 
commenced the washing. There was something 
in this woman's appearance that interested me, and 
something in her face that reminded me of some- 
body I had seen before ; but when and where I could 
not tell. Although her clothes were poor and faded, 
there was nothing common about her, and she struck 
me as being superior to her class. Several times 
during the morning I had to go into the kitchen 


12 


A LESSON OP PATIENCE. 


where she was at work, and each time her appearanca 
impressed me more and more. An emotion of pitj 
arose in my bosom, as I saw her bending over the 
washing tub, and remembered that, for this hard 
labour during a whole day, the pay was to be but 
seventy-five cents. And yet there was an air of meek 
patience, if not contentment, in her face; while I, who 
had every thing from which I ought to have derived 
happiness, was dissatisfied and full of trouble. While 
in her presence I felt rebuked for my complaining 
spirit. 

At dinner time Mrs. Partridge came to my room, 
and with a gentle, patient smile on her face, said — 

If you have no objections, ma’am, I would like 
to run home for a few minutes to nurse my baby and 
give the children something to eat. I’ll make up 
the time.” 

Go by all means,” I replied, with an effor*' to 
speak calmly. 

The woman turned, and went quickly away. 

Kun home to nurse the baby and give the chil- 
dren something to eat !” The words went through 
and through me. So unexpected a request, revealing, 
as it did, the existence of such biting poverty in one 
who was evidently bearing her hard lot without a 
murmur, made me feel ashamed of myself for com- 
plaining at things which I ought to have borne with 
a cheerful spirit. I had a comfortable, in fact a 
luxurious, home, a kind and provident husband, and 


A LESSON OF PATIENCE. 


13 


flervants to do every thing in my house. There was 
no lack of the means for procuring every natural 
good I might reasonably desire. But, between the 
means and the attainment of the natural blessings 1 
sought, there were many obstacles; and, instead of 
going to work in a cheerful, confident spirit to re- 
move those obstacles, I suffered their interposition 
to make me unhappy; and not me alone, but my 
husband and all around me. But here was a poor 
woman, compelled to labour hard with her hands be- 
fore she could obtain even the means for supplying 
nature’s most pressing wants, doing her duty with 
an earnest, resigned, and hopeful spirit I 

It is wicked in me to feel as I do,” I could not 
help saying, as I made an effort to turn away from 
the picture that was before me. 

When Mrs. Partridge came back, which was in 
about half an hour, I said to her — 

Did you find all safe at home 
Yes, ma’am, thank you,” she answered cheer- 
fully. 

How old is your baby ?” 

** Eleven months old, ma’am.” 

Is your husband living ?” 

No, ma’am ; he died more than a year ago.” 

** How many children have you ?” 

<<Four.” 

All young ?” 

Yes, ma’am. The oldest is only in her tenth 
i 


14 


A LESSON OF PAITENCE. 


year, but she is a good little girl, and takes care of 
the baby for me almost as well as a grown person, 
1 don’t know what I would do without her/’ 

But ain’t you afraid to leave them all at home 
alone, for so long a time ?” 

No, ma’am. Jane takes excellent care of them, 
and she is so kind that they will obey her as well 
'IS they do me. I don’t know what in the world I 
would do without her. I am certainly blessed in 
having so good a child.” 

And only in her tenth year !” said I — the image 
of my Alice coming before my mind, with the 
thought of the little use she would be as a nurse 
and care-taker of her younger brothers and sisters. 

She is young, I know,” returned the washer- 
woman — too young to be confined down as much 
as she is. But then she is a very patient child, and 
knows that her mother has a great deal to do. I 
often wish it was easier for her ; though, as it can’t 
be helped, I don’t let it fret me, for you know that 
would do no good.” 

“ But how in the world, Mrs. Partridge,” said I, 
do you manage to provide for four children, and 
do for them at the same time 

find it hard work,” she replied j ^^and some- 
times I feel discouraged for a little while ; but by 
patience and perseverance I manage to get along.” 

Mrs. Partridge went to her washing, and I sat 
down in my comfortable room, having a servant in 


A LESSON OP PATIENCE. 


15 


every department of my family, and ample means 
for the supply of every comfort and luxury I could 
reasonably desire. 

“If she can get along by patience and perse- 
verance/' said I to myself, “it's a shame for me 
that I can't." Still, for all this, when I thought of 
losing my cook through the bad influence of Netty, 
the chambermaid, I felt worried ; and thinking about 
this, and what I should do for another cook, and the 
trouble always attendant upon bringing a new do- 
mestic into the house, made me, after a while, feel 
almost as unhappy as before. It was not long before 
Netty came into my room, saying, as she did so— - 

“ Mrs. Smith, what frock shall I put on Alice ?" 

“ The one with a blue sprig," I replied. 

“ That’s in the wash," was answered. 

“ In the wash !" said I, in a fretful tone. “ How 
came it in the wash ?" 

“ It was dirty." 

“ No, it wasn't any such thing. It would have 
done very well for her to put on as a change to-day 
and to-morrow." 

“ Well, ma'am, it's in the wash, and no help for 
it now," said Netty, quite pertly. 

I was dreadfully provoked with her, and had it 
on my tongue to order her to leave my presence in- 
igtantly. But I choked down my rising indignation. 

“ Take the red and white one, then," said I. 

“The sleeve's nearly torn off of that. There 


L6 


A LESSON OF PATIENCE. 


isn't any one that she can wear except her white 
muslin." 

Oh dear ! It's too bad ! What shall I do ? 
The children are all in rags and tatters !" 

And in this style I fretted away for three or four 
minutes, while Netty stood waiting for my decision 
as to what Alice was to wear. 

Shall she put on the white muslin ?" she at 
length asked. 

*‘No, indeed! Certainly not 1 A pretty condi- 
tion she'd have it in before night ! Go and get me 
the red and white frock, and I will mend it. You 
ought to have told me it was torn this morning. 
You knew there was nothing for the child to put on 
but this. I never saw such a set as you are 1" 

Netty flirted away, grumbling to herself. When 
she came in, she threw the frock into my lap with 
a manner so insolent and provoking that I could 
hardly keep from breaking out upon her and rating 
her soundly. One thing that helped to restrain 
m3 was the recollection of sundry ebullitions 
of a like nature that had neither produced good 
effects nor left my mind in a state of much self-re- 
spect or tranquillity. 

I repaired the torn sleeve, while Netty stood by. 
It was the work of but five minutes. 

Be sure," said I, as I handed the garment to 
Netty, to see that one of Alice's frocks is ironed 
the first ihing to-morrow morning." 


A LESSON OP PATIENCE. 


17 


The girl heard, of course, hut she made no an- 
fcwer. That was rather more of a condescension than 
she was willing to make just then. 

Instead of thinking how easily the difficulty of the 
clean frock for Alice had been gotten over, I began 
fretting myself because I had not been able to pro- 
cure a seamstress, although the children were “all in 
rags and tatters.’^ 

“ What is to be done I said, half crying, as I 
began to rock myself backward and forward in the 
great rocking-chair. “ I am out of all heart.^^ Foi 
an hour I continued to rock and fret myself, and 
then came to the desperate resolution to go to work 
and try what I could do with my own hands. But 
where was I to begin ? What was I to take hold of 
first ? All the children were in rags. 

“Not one of them has a decent garment to his 
back,^^ said I. 

So, after worrying for a whole hour about what I 
should do, and where I should begin, I abandoned 
the idea of attempting any thing myself, in despair, 
and concluded the perplexing debate by taking 
another hearty crying-spell. The poor washer- 
woman was forgotten during most of this afternoon. 
My own troubles were too near the axis of vision, 
and shut out all other objects. 

The dusky twilight had begun to fall, and I was 
still sitting idly in my chamber, and as unhappy 
as I could be. I felt completely discouraged. How 
2 * 


18 


A LESSON OF PATIENCE. 


teas I to get along ? I had been trying lor weeks^ 
in vain, to get a good seamstress; and yet had no 
prospect of obtaining one. I was going to lose my 
eook, and, in all probability, my chambermaid. 
What would I do ? No light broke in through the 
cloudy veil that overhung my mind. The door 
opened, and Agnes, who had come up to my room, 
said — 

Mrs. Partridge is done.*^ 

I took out my purse, and had selected therefrom 
the change necessary to pay the washerwoman, 
when a thought of her caused me to say — 

Tell Mrs. Partridge to come up and see me.^' 

My thoughts and feelings were changing. By 
the time the washerwoman came in, my interest 
in her was alive again. 

Sit down,’^ said I, to the tired-looking creature, 
who sank into a chair, evidently much wearied. 

It’s hard work, Mrs. Partridge,” said I. 

Yes, ma’am, it is rather hard. But I am thank- 
ful for health and strength to enable me to go through 
with it. I know some poor women who have to 
work as hard as I do, and yet do not know what it is 
to feel well for an hour at a time.” 

Poor creatures !” said I. “ It is very hard I How 
in the world can they do it?” 

We can do a great deal, ma’am, when it comes 
to the pinch; and it is much pleasanter to do, I find, 
than to think about it. If I were to think much 


A LESSON OP PATIENCE. 


19 


I should give up in despair. But I pray the Lord 
, each morning to give me my daily bread, and thus 
j far he has done it, and will, I am sure, continue to 
j do it to the end.^' 

I Happy it is for you that you can so think and 
I feel,^^ I replied. ‘^But I am sure I could not be as 
I you are, Mrs. Partridge. It would kill me.^' 

I sincerely trust, ma^am, that you will never be 
called to pass through what I have,” said Mrs. Par- 
tridge. And yet there are those who have it still 
harder. There was a time when the thought of 
being as poor as I now am, and of having to work 
so hard, would have been terrible to me; and yet I 
do not know that I was so very much happier then 
than I am now, though I confess I ought to have 
been. I had full and plenty of every thing brought 
into the house by my husband, and had only to dis- 
pense in my family the blessings of God sent to us. 
But I let things annoy me then more than they do 
now.” 

“ But how can you help being worried, Mrs. Par- 
tridge ? To be away from my children as you have 
been away from yours all day would set me wild. 
I would be sure some of them would be killed or 
dreadfully hurt.” 

Children are wonderfully protected,” said Mrs 
Partridge, in a confident voice. 

So they are. But to think of four little childreii| 


20 


A LESSON OF PATIENCE. 


the youngest eleven months and the oldest not ten ■ 
years old, left all alone, for a whole day V* , 

It is bad when we think about it, I know,^' re- i 
turned Mrs. Partridge. “ It looks very bad ! But , 
I try and put that view of it out of my mind. When 
I leave them in the morning they say they will be 
good children. At dinner time I sometimes find 
them all fast asleep or playing about. I never find 
them crying, or at all unhappy. Jane loves the 
younger ones, and keeps them pleased all the time. ! 
In the evening, when I get back from my work, there 
is generally no one awake but Jane. She has given 
them the bread and milk I left for their suppers, 
and undressed and put them to bed.^' 

Bear little girl ! What a treasure she must be I” 

I could not help saying. 

She is, indeed. I donH see how I could get 
along without her.^' j 

You could not get along at all.” 

^^Oh, yes, ma’am, I could. Some way would be j' 
provided for me,” was the confident reply. | 

I looked into the poor woman’s face with wonder 'i 
and admiration. So patient, so trucstful, and yet so j 
very poor. The expression of her countenance was 
beautiful in its calm religious hope, and it struck ’ 
me more than ever as familiar. 

'‘Bid I ever see you before, Mrs. Partridge?” 1 
asked. ! 

"Indeed, ma’am, I don’t know. I am sure I have ; 


] 


A LESSON OP PATIENCE. 


21 


seen you somewhere. No, now I recollect; it is youi 
likeness to a young schoolmate that makes your face 
BO familiar. How much you do favour her, now I 
look at you more closely.^^ 

What was her name I asked. 

Her name was Flora S 

Indeed ! Why, that was my name T' 

Your name ! Did you go to Madame MartleFs 
school 

<^And can you indeed be my old schoolmate, 
^^lora S 

My maiden name was Flora S , and I went 

to Madame MartieFs. Your face is also familiar, 
but how to place you I do not know.^^ 

DonH you remember Helen Sprague 
Helen Sprague ! This can’t be Helen Sprague, 
surely ! Yes ! I remember now. Why, Helen 
and I stepped forward and grasped her hand. I 
am both glad and sorry to see you. To think that, 
after the lapse of fifteen years, we should meet thus ! 
How in the world is it that fortune has been so un- 
kind to you ? I remember hearing it said that you 
had married very well.” 

I certainly never had cause to regret my mar- 
riage,” replied Mrs. Partridge, with more feeling 
than she had yet shown. While my husband 
lived I had every external blessing that I could ask. 
But, just before he died, somehow or other ue got 


22 


A LESSON OP PATIENCE. 


behind-hand in his business, and after his death, 
there being no one to see to things, what he left was 
seized upon and sold, leaving me friendless and 
almost penniless. Since then, the effort to get food 
and clothes for my children has been so constant 
and earnest, that I have scarcely had time to sit 
down and grieve over my losses and sufferings. It 
is one perpetual struggle for life. And yet, though 
I cannot now keep the tears from my eyes, I will 
not say that I am unhappy. Thus far, all things 
necessary for me have come. I yet have my little 
flock together, and a place that bears the sacred 
name of home.” 

I looked into Helenas face, over which tears were 
falling, and wondered if I were not dreaming. At 
school she had been the favourite of all, she was so 
full of good humour, and had such a cheerful, peace- 
loving spirit. Her parents were poor, but respect- 
able people, who died when Helen was fifteen years 
old. She was then taken from school, and I never 
saw her afterward until she came to my house in 
the capacity of a washerwoman, hundreds of miles 
«way from the scenes of our early years. 

But canH you find easier work than washing ?” 
I asked. Are you not handy with your needle 

'<The only work I have been able to get has been 
from the clothing men, and they pay so little that I 
can t live on it.” 

Can you do fine sewing I asked. 


A LESSON OF PATIENCE. 


23 


Yes, I call myself handy with my needle." 

Can you make children’s clothes 

Boy’s clothes 

No. Girl’s clothing." 

Oh, yes." 

I’m very much in want of some one. My child 
ren are all in" — rags and tatters I was going to say^ 
but I checked myself — are all in need of clothes, 
and so far I have not been able to get anybody to 
sew for me. If you like, I will give you three or 
four weeks’ sewing at least." 

** I shall be very glad to have it, and very thank- 
ful for your kindness in offering it to me," returned 
Mrs. Partridge, rising from her chair, and adding 
as she did so — 

But I must be getting home. It is nearly dark, 
and Jane will be anxious to see me back again." 

I handed her the seventy-five cents she had 
earned for washing for me during a whole day. 
Promising to come over and see me early in the 
morning about the sewing, she withdrew, and I was 
left again to my own reflections. 

“ If ever a murmurer and com plainer received a 
severe rebuke, it is I !" was the first almost audible 
thought that passed through my mind. To think 
that I, with my cup full and running over with 
blessings, should make myself and all around me 
unhappy, because a few minor things are not just 
to my satisfaction, while this woman, who toils like a 


24 


A LESSON OF PATIENCE. 


slave from morning until night, and who can hardly 
procure food and clothing for her children, from whom 
she is almost constantly separated, is patient and hope- 
ful, makes me feel as if I deserved to lose what I 
have refused to enjoy.” 

On the next morning Mrs. Partridge called quite 
early. She cut and fitted several frocks for the 
children, at which work she seemed very handy, 
and then took them home to make. She sewed for 
me five weeks, and then got work in another family 
where I recommended her. Since then, she has been 
kept constantly employed in sewing, at good prices, 
by about six families. In all of these I have spoken 
of her and created an interest in her favour. The 
mere wages that she earns is much less than what 
she really receives. All her children's clothes are 
given to her, and she receives many a bag of meal 
and load of coal without knowing from whence it 
comes. In fact, her condition is more comfortable 
in every way than it was, and, in fact, so is mine. 
The lesson of patience I learned from Mrs. Partridge 
in my first, and in many subsequent interviews, im- 
pressed itself deeply upon my mind, and caused me 
to look at and value the good I had, rather than 
fret over the few occurrences that were not altogether 
to my wishes. I saw, too, how the small trouble 
to me had been the means of working out a great 
good to her. My need of a washerwoman, about 
which I had been so annoyed, and the temporary 


A WESSON OF PATIENCE. 


2ft 


want of a seamstress which I had experienced — light 
tnings as they should have been — led me to search 
about for aid, and, providentially, to fall upon Mrs. 
Partridge, who needed just what it was in my power 
to do for her. 

Whenever I find myself falling into my old habit, 
which I am sorry to say is too frequently the case, 
I turn my thoughts to this poor woman, who is still 
toiling on under heavy life-burdens, yet with meek- 
ness and patience, and bowing my head in shame, 
say — 

<‘If she is thankful for the good she has, how 
deep should be my gratitude V* 


I DIDN’T THINK OF THAT. 


Mr. Lawson, the tailor, was consideied a very 
good member of society. He was industrious, paid 
what he owed, was a kind husband and father and a 
pleasant and considerate neighbour. He was, more- 
over, attached to the church, and, by his brethren in 
the faith, considered a pious and good man. And, 
to say the truth, Mr. Lawson wouia Ovmpare favour- 
ably with most people. 

One day as Mr. Lawson stood at his cutting 
board, shears in hand, a poorly dressed young woman 
entered his shop, and approaching him, asked, with 
some embarrassment and timidity, if he had any 
work to give out. 

What can you do asked the tailor, looking 
rather coldly upon his visitor. 

I can make pantaloons and vests,” replied the 
girl.” 

^^Have you ever worked for the merchant tai- 
lors?” 

Yes, sir, I worked for Mr. Wright.” 

“ HasnH he any thing for you to do ?” 

26 


I DIDN^T THINK OF THAT. 




No, not just now. He has regular bands who 
always get the preference.” 

Did your work suit him ?” 

He never found fault with it.” 

<< Where do you live ?” 

‘‘In Cherry street,” replied the young woman 
“At No. —.” 

Mr. Lawson stood and mused for a short time. 

“ I have a vest here,” he at length said, taking a 
small bundle from a shelf, “ which I want by to- 
morrow evening at the latest. If you think you 
can make it very neatly, and have it done in time, 
you can take it.” 

“It shall be done in time,” said the young 
woman, reaching out eagerly for the bundle. 

“And remember, I shall expect it made well. 
If I like your work, I will give you more.” 

“ I will try to please you,” returned the girl, in a 
low voice. 

“ To-morrow evening, recollect.” 

“ Yes, sir. I will have it done.” 

The girl turned and went quickly away. As she 
walked along hurriedly, her slender form bent for- 
ward, and there was an unsteadiness in her steps, as 
if from weakness. She did not linger a moment, 
nor heed any thing that was passing in the street. 

A back room in the third story of an old house 
in Cherry street was the home of the poor sewing 
girl. As she entered, she said, in a cheerful voice. 


28 


I DIDN^T THINK OF THAT. 


to a person who was lying upon a bed which the 
room contained — 

have got work, sister. It is a vest, and it 
must be done by to-morrow evening.” 

Can you finish it in time inquired the invalid 
in a faint voice. 

Oh, yes, easily j” and as she spoke, she laid off 
her bonnet and shawl hurriedly and sat down to un- 
roll the work she had obtained. 

The vest proved to be of white Marseilles. As 
soon as the invalid sister saw this, she said — 

Fm afraid you won’t be able to get that done 
in time, Ellen; it is very particular work. To 
stitch the edges well will alone take you many 
hours.” 

I will sit up late, and get a fair start to-night, 
Mary. Then I can easily finish it in time. You 
know a vest is only a day’s work for a good sewer, 
and I have nearly a day and a half before me,” 

“Yes; but you must remember, Ellen, that you 
are not very fast with your needle, and are, besides, 
far from being well. The work, too, is of the most 
particular kind, and cannot be hurried.” 

Don’t fear for me in the least, Mary. I will 
do all I have engaged to do,” and the young woman, 
who had already arranged the cut-out garment, 
took a portion of it in her lap and commenced her 
tasA. 

The two sisters, here introduced, were poor, in 


I didn’t think of that. 


29 


bad health, and without friends. Mary, the older 
had declined rapidly within a few months, and be- 
come so much exhausted as to be obliged to keep 
her bed most of the time. The task of providing 
for the wants of both fell, consequently, upon Ellen. 
Increased exertion was more than her delicate frame 
could '\7ell endure. Daily were the vital energies 
of her system becoming more and more exhausted, 
a fact of which she was painfully conscious, and 
which she, with studious care, sought to conceal 
from Mary. 

When, through loss of friends and change of cir- 
cumstances, the two sisters were thrown entirely 
dependent upon their own exertions for a livelihood, 
they, with prudent forethought, immediately ap- 
plied themselves to the learning of a trade in 
order to have the means of support. Confinement 
for twelve or fourteen hours a day, sitting in one 
position — a great change for them — could not long 
be endured without producing ill effects on frail 
young creatures at best. Mary, the older, failed 
first ; and, at the time of which we are writing, had 
so far declined as to be little more than the shadow 
of any thing earthly. 

With her own unaided hands, Ellen found it im- 
possible to earn enough for even their most simple 
need. Often Mary was without medicine, because 
there was no money left after food and fuel were 
bought. More and more earnestly did Ellen apply 
8 * 


30 


I didn’t think or that. 


herself as want came in more varied shapes; but the 
returns of her labour became daily less and less ade- 
quate to meet the demands of nature. 

The busy season had passed, and trade was dull. 
Ellen worked for only two merchant tailors, and 
with them she was considered an extra hand. 
When business fell otf, as the season approached 
towards mid-summer, she was the first to receive 
notice that no more work could be given out for the 
present. With a disheartened feeling she returned 
home on receiving this intelligence. Mary saw 
that something was wrong the moment she entered, 
and tenderly inquired the cause of her trouble. On 
learning what it was, she endeavoured to comfort and 
assure her, but to little purpose. 

As soon as Ellen could regain sufficient compo- 
sure of mind, she went forth in search of work at 
other shops. To one of her peculiar, timid, and 
shrinking disposition this was a severe trial. But 
there was no passing it by. Three days elapsed, 
during which every effort to get work proved un- 
successful. Even the clothing stores had nothing 
to give out to extra hands. 

Reduced to their last penny, Ellen was almost in 
despair, when she called upon Mr. Lawson. The 
garment he gave her to make seemed to her like 
help sent from heaven. Cheerfully did she work 
upon it until a late hour at night, and she was ready 
to resume her labour with the rising sun. But, as 


I didn’t think of that. 


31 


Mary had feared, the work did not progress alto- 
gether to her satisfaction. She had never made 
ever one or two white Marseilles vests, and found 
that she was not so well skilled in the art of neat 
and accurate stitching as was required to give the 
garment a beautiful and workmanlike appearance. 
The stitches did not impress themselves along the 
edges with the accuracy that her eye told her was 
required, and she was troubled to find that, be as 
careful as she would, the pure white fabric grew 
soiled beneath her fingers. Mary, to whom she fre- 
quently submitted the work, tried to encourage her,* 
but her eyes were not deceived. 

It was after dark when Ellen finished the gar 
ment. She was weary and faint ; for she had takeB 
no food since morning, and had been bending ov^ 
her work, with very little intermission, the whole 
day; and she had no hope of receiving any thing 
more to do, for Mr. Lawson, she was sure, would not 
be pleased with the way the vest was made. But, 
want of every thing, and particularly food for herself 
and sister, made the sum of seventy-five cents, to be 
received for the garment, a little treasure in her 
eyes ; and she hurried ofl:’ with the vest the moment 
it was finished. 

I will bring home a little tea, sister,” she said, 
as she was about leaving ; I am sure a cup of tea 
will do you good ; and I feel as if it would revive 
and strengthen me.” 


32 


I didn't think of that. 


Mary looked at Ellen with a tender, pitying ex* 
pression, while her large bright eyes shone glassy 
in the dim rays sent forth by a poor lamp ; but she 
did not reply. She had a gnawing in her stomach, 
that made her feel faint, and a most earnest craving 
for nourishing and even stimulating food, the con- 
sequence of long abstinence as well as from the 
peculiarity of her disease. But she did not breathe 
a word of this to Ellen, who would, she knew, ex- 
pend for her every cent of the money she was about 
to receive, if she was aware of the morbid appetite 
from which she was suffering. 

“I will be back soon," added Ellen, as she re- 
tired from the room. 

Mary sighed deeply when alone. She raised he/ 
eyes upwards for a few moments, then closing then 
and clapping her hands tightly together, she laj 
with her white face turned towards the light, more 
the image of death than of life. 

Here it is past eight o'clock, and that vest is 
not yet in," said Mr. Lawson, in a fretful tone. 

I had my doubts about the girl when I gave it to 
her. But she looked so poor, and seemed so earnest 
about work, that I was weak enough to intrust her 
with the garment. But I will take care, another 
time, how I let my feeling get the better of my 
judgment." 

Before the individual had time to reply, Ellen 
came in with the vest, and laid it on the counter, at 


I didn't think of that. 


which the tailor was standing. She said nothing, 
neither did the tailor make any remark; but the 
latter unfolded the vest in the way that plainly 
showed him not to be in a very placid frame of 
mind. 

Goodness !" he ejaculated, after glancing hur- 
riedly at the garment. 

The girl shrunk back from the counter, and looked 
frightened. 

Well, this is a pretty job for one to bring in !" 
said the tailor, in an excited tone of voice. 
pretty job, indeed ! It looks as if it had been 
iragged through a duck puddle. And such work I" 
He tossed the garment from him in angry con 
lempt, and walked away to the back part of the shop 
leaving Ellen standing almost as still as a statue. 

That vest was to have been home to-night," 
said, as he threw himself into a chair. Of course, 
the customer will be disappointed and angry, and I 
shall lose him. But I don't care half so much for 
that, as I do for not being able to keep my word 
with him. It is too much I" 

Ellen would have instantly retired, but the 
thought of her sick sister forced her to remain. 

O 

She felt that she could not go until she had received 
the price of making the vest, for their money was 
all gone, and they had no food in the house. She 
had lingered for a little while, when the tailor called 
out to her, and said — 


S4 


I didn't think of that. 


You needn’t stand there, Miss ! thinldng that 1 
am going to pay you for ruining the job. It’s bad 
enough to lose my material, and customer into the 
bargain. In justice you should be made to pay for 
the vest. But there is no hope for that. So tako 
yourself away as quickly as possible, and never let 
me set eyes on you again." 

Ellen did not reply, but turned away slowly, and, 
with her eyes upon the floor and her form drooping, 
retired from the shop. After she had gone, Mr. Law- 
son returned to the front part of the store, and taking 
up the vest, brought it back to where an elderly man 
was sitting, and holding it towards him, said, by way of 
ipology for the part he had taken in the little scene : 

^‘That’s a beautiful article for a gentleman to 
vear — isn’t it ?" 

The man made no reply, and the tailor, after a 
pause, added — 

I refused to pay her, as a matter of principle. 
She knew she couldn’t make the garment when she 
took it away. She will be more careful how she 
tries again to impose herself upon customer tailors 
as a good vest maker." 

“Perhaps," said the old gentleman, in a mild 
way, “necessity drove her to you for work, and 
tempted her to undertake a job that required greater 
skill than she possessed. She certainly looked very 
poor." 

“ It was because she appeared so poor and misers 


I DIDN^T THINK OP THAT. 


35 


ble that I was weak enough to place the vest in her 
hands/^ replied Mr. Lawson, in a less severe tone 
of voice. But it was an imposition in her to ash 
for work that she did not know how to make.^^ 
“Brother Lawson/’ said the old gentleman, who 
was a fellow member of the church, “ we should not 
blame, with too much severity, the person who, in 
extreme want, undertakes to perform work for which 
he does not possess the requisite skill. The fact 
that a young girl, like the one who was just here, is 
willing, in her extreme poverty, to labour, instead 
i>f sinking into vice and idleness, shows her to pos- 
sess both virtue and integrity of character, and these 
ive should be willing to encourage, even at some 
sacrifice. Work is slack now, as you are aware, 
ind there is but little doubt that she had been to 
many places seeking employment before she came 
to you. It may be — and this is a very probable 
suggestion — that she did not come to you for work 
until she, and those who may be dependent upon 
the meagre returns of her labour, were reduced to 
the utmost extremity. And, it may be, that even 
their next meal was dependent upon the receipt of 
the money that was expected to be paid for making 
the vest you hold in your hand. The expression of 
her face as she turned away, and h^x slow, lingering 
step and drooping form, as she left the shop, had in 
them a language which told me of all this, and even 
more 


36 


I DIDN^T THINK OF THAT. 


A great change came over the tailor’s counte* 
nance. 

didn’t think of that/’ fell in a low tone from 
his lips. 

I didn’t suppose you did, brother Lawson,” said 
his monitor. are all more apt to think of 

ourselves than of others. The girl promised you 
the vest this evening ?” 

^<Yes.” 

“And, so far as that was concerned, performed 
her contract. Is the vest made so very badly?” 

Mr. Lawson took up the garment, and examined 
it more carefully. 

“ Well, I can’t say that the work is so very badlj 
lone. But it is dreadfully soiled and rumpled, am} 
is not as neat a job as it should be, nor at all suck 
is I wished it. The customer for whom it is in- 
tended is very particular, and I was anxious to 
please him.” 

“All this is very annoying, of course; but still 
we should always be ready to make some excuse for 
the short-comings of others. There is no telling 
under how many disadvantages the poor girl may 
have laboured in making this vest. She may have 
had a sick mother, or a father, or sister to attend 
to, which constantly interfered with and interrupted 
her. She may have been compelled, from this cause, 
to work through a greater part of the night, in order 
to keep her promise to you. Under such circum- 


I didn’t think or that. 


37 


stances, even you could hardly wonder if the gar- 
ment were not made well, or if it came soiled from 
her hands. And even you could hardly find it in 
your heart to speak unkindly to ^he poor creature, 
much less turn her away angrily, and without the 
money she had toiled for so earnestly.” 

I didn’t think of that,” was murmured in a low 
abstracted voice. 

Who could wonder,” continued the old man, 
if that unhappy girl, deprived of the reward of 
honest labour, and driven angrily away as you drove 
her just now, should in despair step aside into ruin, 
thus sacrificing herself, body and soul, in order ta 
save from want and deprivation those she could not 
sustain by virtuous toil ?” 

I didn’t think of that,” fell quick and in au 
agitated voice from the tailor’s lips, as, dropping the 
garment he held in his hand, he hurried around his 
counter and left the shop. 

Ellen was not tempted as the friend of Mr. Law 
son had supposed; but there are hundreds who, 
under like circumstances, would have turned aside. 
From the shop of the tailor she went slowly home- 
ward; at her heart was a feeling of utter despend- 
ency. She had struggled long, in weariness and 
pain, with her lot ; but now she felt that the strug- 
gle was over. The hope of the hour had failed, and 
it seemed to her the last hope. 

When Ellen entered the room where her sister 
4 


88 


I didn’t think of that. 


lay, the sight of her expectant face (for the desiro 
for nourishing, refreshing food had been stronger 
than usual with Mary, and her fancy had been 
dwelling upon the pleasant repast that was soon to 
be spread before her) made the task of communi- 
cating the cruel repulse she had received tenfold 
more painful. Without uttering a word, she threw 
herself upon the bed beside her sister, and, burying 
her face in a pillow, endeavoured to smother the sobs 
that came up convulsively from her bosom. Marj 
asked no question. She understood the meaning of 
Ellen’s agitation well; it told her that she had been 
disappointed in the expectation of receiving tha 
money for her work. 

Deep silence followed. Mary clasped her hand* 
together and raised her eyes upward, while Ellen 
lay motionless with her face hidden where she had 
first concealed it. There was a knock at the door, 
but no voice bade the applicant for admission enter. 
Tfc was repeated ; but, if heard, it met no response. 
Then the latch was lifted, the door swung open, and 
the tailor stepped into the room. The sound of his 
fe^t aroused the passive sisters. The white face of 
l^lary was to him, at first, a startling imago of death ; 
but her large bright eyes opened and turned upon 
him with an assurance that life still lingered in its 
earthly tenement. 

“ Ellen, Ellen,” said the sick girl, faintly. 

Ellen, too, had heard the sound of footsteps on 


I didn't think of that. 


39 


the floor, and she now raised up slowly, and present- 
ed to Lawson her sad, tearful countenance. 

I was wrong to speak to you as I did," said the 
tailor without preface, advancing towards the bed 
and holding out to Ellen the money she had earned. 

There is the price of the vest ; it is better made 
than I at first thought it was. To-morrow I will 
send you more work. Try and cheer up. Are you 
BO very poor?" 

The last two sentences were uttered in a voice of 
encouragement and sympathy. Ellen looked her 
thankfulness, but did not venture a reply. Her 
heart was too full to trust her lips with utterance. 

Feeling that his presence, under all circumstances, 
could not but be embarrassing, Mr. Lawson, after 
taking two or three dollars from his pocket and 
placing them on the table with the remark — Take 
this in advance for work," retired and left the poor 
sisters in a different frame of mind from what they 
were in when he entered. Shortly after they re- 
ceived a basket, in which was a supply of nourish- 
ing food. Though no one's name was sent with it, 
they were not in doubt as to whence it came. 

Mr. Lawson was not an unfeeling man, but, like 
too many others in the world, he did not alway? 
« think." 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


CHAPTER I. 

A LADY, past the prime of life, sat thoughtful, as 
twilight fell duskily around her, in a room furnished 
with great elegance. That her thoughts were far 
from being pleasant, the sober, even sad expression 
of her countenance too clearly testified. She was 
dressed in deep mourning. A faint sigh parted her 
lips as she looked up, on hearing the door of the 
apartment in which she was sitting open. The 
person who entered, a tall and beautiful girl, also 
in mourning, came and sat down by her side, and 
leaned her head, with a pensive, troubled air, down 
upon her shoulder. 

^‘We must decide upon something, Edith, and 
that with as little delay as possible,’^ said the elder 
of the two ladies, soon after the younger one enter- 
ed. This was said in a tone of great despondency. 

^^Upon what shall we decide, mother?’^ and the 
young lady raised her head from its reclining posi- 
tion, and looked earnestly into the eyes of her pa» 
rent. 


40 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


41 


We must decide to do something by which the 
family can be sustained. Your father’s death has 
left us, unfortunately and unexpectedly, as you ab 
ready know, with scarcely a thousand dollars beyond 
the furniture of this house, instead of an independ- 
ence which we supposed him to possess. His death 
was sad and afflictive enough — more than it seemed 
I could bear. But to have this added I” 

The voice of the speaker sank into a low moan, 
and was lost in a stifled sob. 

But what can we do, mother ?” asked Edith, in 
an earnest tone, after pausing long enough for her 
mother to regain the control of her feelings. 

I have thought of but one thing that is at all 
respectable,” replied the mother. 

What is that ?” 

Taking boarders.” 

Why, mother !” ejaculated Edith, evincing great 
surprise, how can you think of such a thing ?” 

Because driven to do so by the force of circum- 
stances.” 

Taking boarders ! Keeping a boarding-house I 
Surely we have not come to this !” 

An expression of distress blended with the look 
of astonishment in Edith’s face. 

There is nothing disgraceful in keeping a board- 
ing-house,” returned the mother. great many 
very respectable ladies have been compelled to resorJ 
to it as a means of supporting their families.” 

4 * 


42 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


But to tliink of it, mother ! To think of your 
keeping a hoarding-house ! I cannot bear it.^' 

“ Is there any thing else that can be done, Edith V* 

Don’t ask me such a question/’ 

“ If, then, you cannot think for me, you must try 
and think with me, my child. Something will have 
to be done to create an income. In less than twelve 
months, every dollar I have will be expended ; and 
then what are we to do? Now, Edith, is the time 
for us to look at the matter earnestly, and to deter- 
mine the course we will take. There is no use to 
look away from it. A good house in a central situ- 
ation, large enough for the purpose, can no doubt 
be obtained; and I think there will be no difficulty 
about our getting boarders enough to fill it. The 
income or profit from these will enable us still to 
live comfortably, and keep Edward and Ellen at 
school.” 

It is hard,” was the only remark Edith made 
to this. 

It is hard, my daughter ; very hard ! I have 
thought and thought about it until my whole mind 
lias been thrown into confusion. But it will not do 
to think for ever; there must be action. Can I see 
want stealing in upon my children, and sit and fold 
my hands supinely? No ! And to you, Edith, my 
oldest child, I look for aid and for counsel. Stand 
up bravely by my side/’ 

^‘And you are in earnest in all this?” said Ed .ih. 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


43 


whose mind seemed hardly able to realize the truth 
of their position. From her earliest days, all the 
blessings that money could procure had been freely 
scattered around her feet. As she grew up and 
advanced towards womanhood, she had moved in 
the most fashionable circles, and there acquired the 
habit of estimating people according to their wealth 
and social standing, rather than by qualities of mind. 
In her view, it appeared degrading in a woman to 
enter upon any kind of employment for money; and 
with the keeper of a boarding-house, particularly, 
she had always associated something low, vulgar, 
and ungenteel. At the thought of her mother’s en- 
gaging in such an occupation, when the suggestion 
was made, her mind instantly revolted. It appeared 
to her as if disgrace would be the inevitable conse- 
quence. 

^^And you are in earnest in all this?” was an 
expression mingling her clear conviction of the truth 
of what at first appeared so strange a proposition, 
and her astonishment that the necessities of their 
situation were such as to drive them to so humili- 
ating a resource. 

Deeply in earnest,” was the mother’s reply. 

We are left alone in the world. He who cared for 
us and provided for us so liberally has been taken 
away, and we have nowhere to look for aid but to 
the resources that are in ourselves. These, well 
applied, will give us, I feel strongly assured, all that 


44 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


we need. The thing to decide is, what we ought to 
do. If we choose aright, all will doubtless come 
out right To choose aright is, therefore, of the first 
importance; and to do this, we must not suffer dis- 
torting suggestions nor the appeals of a false pride 
to influence our minds in the least. You are my 
oldest child, Edith ; and, as such, I cannot but look 
upon you as, to some extent, jointly with me, the 
guardian of your younger brothers and sisters. True, 
Miriam is of age, and Henry nearly so; but still 
you are the eldest — your mind is more matured, and 
in your judgment I have the most confidence. Try 
and forget, Edith, all but the fact that, unless we 
make an exertion, one home for all cannot be re- 
tained. Are you willing that we should be scattered 
like leaves in the autumn wind ? No ! you would 
consider that one of the greatest calamities that could 
befall us — an evil to prevent which we should use 
every effort in our power. Do you not see this 
clearly 

I do, mother,'^ was replied by Edith in a more 
rational tone of voice than that in which she had yet 
spoken. 

To open a store of any kind would involve five 
times the exposure of a boarding-house; and, more- 
over, I know nothing of business.^' 

“ Keeping a store ? Oh, no ! we couldnH do that 
Think of the dreadful exposure V* 

“But in taking boarders we only increase oui 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


45 


family, and all goes on as usual. To my mind, it 
is the most genteel thing that we can do. Our style 
of living will be the same ; our waiter and all our 
servants will be retained. In fact, to the eye there 
will be little change, and the world need never know 
how greatly reduced our circumstances have become.^' 

This mode of argument tended to reconcile Edith 
to taking boarders. Something, she saw, had to be 
done. Opening a store was felt to be out of the 
question ; and as to commencing a school, the thought 
was repulsed at the very first suggestion. 

A few friends were consulted on the subject, and 
all agreed that the best thing for the widow to do 
was to take boarders. Each one could point to some 
lady who had commenced the business with far less 
ability to make boarders comfortable, and who had 
yet got along very well.* It was conceded on all 
hands that it was a very genteel business, and that 
some of the first ladies had been compelled to resort 
to it, without being any the less respected. Almost 
every one to whom the matter was referred spoke 
in favour of the thing, and but a single individual 
suggested difficulty ; but what he said was not per 
mitted to have much weight. This individual was 
a brother of the widow, who had always been looked 
upon as rather eccentric. He was a bachelor and 
without fortune, merely enjoying a moderate income 
as book-keeper in the office of an insurance com* 
pany. But more of him hereafter. 


46 


TAKING BQARDEBS. 


CHAPTER n. 

Mrs. Darlington, tbe widow wc have just intro 
liuced to the reader, had five children. Edith, the 
oldest daughter, was twenty-two years of age at the 
time of her fathers death; and Henry, the oldest 
son, just twenty. Next to Henry was Miriam, 
eighteen years old. The ages of the two youngest 
children, Ellen and Edward, were ten and eight. 

Mr. Darlington, while living, was a lawyer of dis- 
tinguished ability, and his talents and reputation at 
the Philadelphia bar enabled him to accumulate a 
handsome fortune. Upon this he had lived for some 
years in a style of great elegance. About a year 
before his death, he had been induced to enter into 
some speculation that promised great results; but 
he found, when too late to retreat, that he had been 
greatly deceived. Heavy losses soon followed. In 
a struggle to recover himself, he became still further 
involved ; and, ere the expiration of a twelvemonth, 
saw every thing falling from under him. The trouble 
brought on by this was the real cause of his death, 
which was sudden, and resulted from inflammation 
and congestion of the brain. 

Henry Darlington, the oldest son, was a young 
man of promising talents. He remained at college 
until a few months before his father’s death, whet* 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


47 


he returned home and commenced the study of 
in which he felt ambitious to distinguish himself. 

Edith, the oldest daughter, possessed a fine mind 
which had been well educated. She had some false 
views of life, natural to her position ; but, apart from 
this, was a girl of sound sense and great force of 
character. Thus far in life she had not encountered 
circumstances of a nature calculated to develop 
what was in her. The time for that, however, was 
approaching. Miriam, her sister, was a quiet, gentle, 
retiring, almost timid girl. She went into company 
with reluctance, and then always shrunk as far from 
observation as it was possible to get; but, like most 
quiet, retiring persons, there were deep places in her 
mind and heart. She thought and felt more than 
was supposed. All who knew Miriam loved her. 
Of the younger children we need not here speak. 

Mrs. Darlington knew comparatively nothing of 
the world beyond her own social circle. She was, 
perhaps, as little calculated for doing what she pro- 
posed to do as a woman could well be. She had no 
habits of economy, and had never in her life been 
called upon to make calculations of expense in house- 
hold matters. There was a tendency to generosity 
rather than selfishness in her character, and she 
rarely thought evil of any one. But all that she 
was need not here be set forth, for it will appear as 
our narrative progresses. 

Mr. Hiram Ellis, the brother of Mrs. Darlington, 


48 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


to wLom brief allusion has been made, was not a 
great favourite in the family — although Mr. Darling- 
ton understood his good qualities, and very highly 
respected him — because he had not much that was 
prepossessing in his external appearance, and was 
thought to be a little eccentric. Moreover, he was 
not rich — merely holding the place of book-keeper 
in an insurance office, at a moderate salary. But 
as he had never married, and had only himself to 
support, his income supplied amply all his wants, 
and left him a small annual surplus. 

After the death of Mr. Darlington, he visited his 
sister much more frequently than before. Of the 
exact condition of her affairs, he was much better 
acquainted than she supposed. The anxiety which 
she felt, some months after her husband’s death, 
when the result of the settlement of his estate be- 
came known, led her to be rather more communi- 
cative. After determining to open a boarding-house, 
she said to him, on the occasion of his visiting her 
one evening — 

. As it is necessary for me to do something, Hiram, 
I have concluded to move to a better location, and 
take a few boarders.” 

Don’t do any such thing, Margaret,” her brother 
made answer. Taking boarders! It’s the last 
thing of which a woman should think.” 

Why do you say that, Hiram ?” asked Mrs 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


49 


Darlington, evincing no little surprise at this unex- 
pected reply. 

Because I think that a woman who has a living 
to make can hardly try a more doubtful experiment. 
Not one in ten ever succeeds in doing any thing.^^ 
But why, Hiram ? Why ? Tm sure a great 
many ladies get a living in that way.^^ 

What you will never do, Margaret, mark my 
words for it. It takes a woman of shrewdness, cau- 
tion, and knowledge of the world, and one thorough- 
ly versed in household economy, to get along in this 
pursuit. Even if you possessed all these prerequi- 
sites to success, you have just the family that ought 
not to come in contact with anybody and everybody 
that find their way into boarding-houses.^^ 

I must do something, Hiram,^^ said Mrs. Dar- 
lington, evincing impatience at the opposition of her 
brother. 

I perfectly agree with you in that, Margaret,^' . 
replied Mr. Ellis. The only doubt is as to your 
choice of occupation. You think that your best 
plan will be to take boarders; while I think you 
could not fall upon a worse expedient.^' 

Why do you think so 
Have I not just said 
What 

Why, that, in the first place, it takes a woman 
9f great shrewdness, caution, and knowledge of the 
5 


60 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


world, and one thoroughly versed in household 
economy, to succeed in the business.^^ 

‘‘ I’m not a fool, Hiram exclaimed Mrs. Dar- 
lington, losing her self-command. 

Perhaps you may alter your opinion on that 
head some time within the next twelve months,’* 
coolly returned Mr. Ellis, rising and beginning to 
button up his coat. 

Such language to me, at this time, is cruel I” 
said Mrs. Darlington, putting her handkerchief to 
her eyes. 

No,” calmly replied her brother, not cniel, 
but kind. I wish to save you from trouble.” 

What else can I do ?” asked the widow, remov- 
ing the handkerchief from her face. 

Many things, I was going to say,” returned Mr. 
Ellis. ‘^But, in truth, the choice of employment 
is not very great. Still, something with a fairer 
promise than taking boarders may be found.” 

If you can point me to some better way, bro- 
ther,” said Mrs. Darlington, ^^I shall feel greatly 
indebted to you.” 

Almost any thing is better. Suppose you and 
Edith were to open a school. Both of you are 
well ” 

Open & school !” exclaimed Mrs. Darlington, 
interrupting her brother, and exhibiting most pro- 
found astonishment. 1 open a school I I iidn’l 


TAKING BOAUDERS. 


51 


think you would take advantage of my grief and 
misfortune to offer me an insult/^ 

Mr. Ellis buttoned the top button of his coat 
nervously, as his sister said this, and, partly turning 
himself towards the door, said — 

Teaching school is a far more useful, and, if you 
will, more respectable employment, than keeping a 
boarding-house. This you ought to see at a glance. 
As a teacher, you would be a minister of truth to 
the mind, and have it in your power to bend from 
evil and lead to good the young immortals committed 
to your care; while, as a boarding-house keeper, 
you would merely furnish food for the natural body — 
a use below what you are capable of rendering to 
society.^^ 

But Mrs. Darlington was in no state of mind to 
feel the force of such an argument. From the 
thought of a school she shrunk as from something 
degrading, and turned from it with displeasure. 

DonH mention such a thing to me,'^ said she 
fretfully, will not listen to the proposition.” 

Ob, well, Margaret, as you please,” replied her 
brother, now moving towards the door. When 
you ask my advice, I will give it according to my 
best judgment, and with a sincere desire for your 
good. If, however, it conflicts with your views, 
reject it; but, in simple justice to me, do so in a 
better spirit than you manifest on the present occa* 
sion G-ood evening !” 


52 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


Mrs. Darlington was too much disturbed in mind 
to make a reply, and Mr. Hiram Ellis left the room 
without any attempt on the part of his sister to de- 
tain him. On both sides, there had been the in- 
dulgence of rather more impatience and intolerance 
than was commendable 


CHAPTER ni. 

In due time, Mrs. Darlington removed to a house 
in Arch Street, the annual rent of which was six 
hundred dollars, and there began her experiment. 
The expense of a removal, and the cost of the ad- 
ditional chamber furniture required, exhausted about 
two hundred dollars of the widow’s slender stock 
of money, and caused her to feel a little troubled 
when she noticed the diminution. 

She began her new business with two boarders, a 
gentleman and his wife by the name of Grimes, who 
had entered her house on the recommendation of a 
friend. They were to pay her the sum of eight 
dollars a week. A young man named Barling, 
clerk in a wholesale Market Street house, came 
next ; and he introduced, soon after, a friend of his, 
a clerk in the same store, named Mason. They 
were room-mates, and paid three dollars and a half 
each. Three or four weeks elapsed before any 
further additions were made j then an advertisement 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


53 


brought several applications. One was from a gen- 
tleman who wanted two rooms for himself and wife, 
a nurse and four children. He wanted the second 
story fcpnt and back chambers, furnished, and was 
not willing to pay over sixteen dollars, although his 
oldest child was twelve and his youngest four years 
of age — seven good eaters and two of the best rooms 
in the house for sixteen dollars ! 

Mrs. Darlington demurred. The man said — 

Very well, ma’am,” in a tone of indifference. 
“ I can find plenty of accommodations quite as good 
as yours for the price I offer. It’s all I pay now.” 

Poor Mrs. Darlington sighed. She had but fif 
teen dollars yet in the house — that is, boarders wht 
paid this amount weekly — ^and the rent alone 
amounted to twelve dollars. Sixteen dollars, she 
argued with herself, as she sat with her eyes upon 
the floor, would make a great difference in her in- 
come ; would, in fact, meet all the expenses of the 
house. Two good rooms would still remain, and all 
that she received for these would be so much clear 
pro^t. Such was the hurried conclusion of Mrs. 
Darlington’s mind. 

I suppose I will have to take you,” said she, 
lifting her eyes to the man’s hard features. ^^But 
those rooms ought to bring me twenty-four dollars.” 

Sixteen is the utmost I will pay,” replied the 
man. In fact, I did think of offering only four- 
teen dollars. But the rooms are fine, and I like 
5 * 


54 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


them. Sixteen is a liberal price. Y our terms are 
considerably above the ordinary range.^^ 

The widow sighed again. 

If the man heard this sound, it did not touch a 
single chord of feeling. 

“ Then it is understood that I am to have your 
rooms at sixteen dollars said he. 

Yes, sir. I will take you for that.^^ 

“ Very well. My name is Scragg. We will be 
ready to come in on Monday next. You can have 
all prepared for us 

Yes, sir.” 

Scarcely had Mr. Scragg departed, when a gen- 
tleman called to know if Mrs. Darlington had a 
vacant front room in the second story. 

“ I had this morning j but it is taken,” replied 
the widow. 

Ah ! Dm sorry for that.” 

Will not a third story front room suit you ?” 

No. My wife is not in very good health, and 
wishes a second story room. We pay twelve dollars 
a week, and would even give more, if necessarj^, to 
obtain just the accommodations we like. The situa- 
tion of your house pleases me. I’m sorry that I 
happen to be too late.” 

Will 3'Ou look at the room ?” said Mrs. Dar- 
lington, into whose mind came the desire to break 
the bad Dargain she had just made. 

“ If you please,” returned the man. 


TAKING BOAB.DERS. 


55 


And both went up to the large and beautifully 
furnished chambers. 

J ust the thing said the man, as he looked 
around, much pleased with the appearance of every 
thing. But I understood you to say that it was 
taken.’' 

Why, yes,” replied Mrs. Darlington, I did 
partly engage it this morning ; but, no doubt, I can 
arrange with the family to take the two rooms above, 
which will suit them just as well.” 

‘‘ If you can” — 

There’ll be no difficulty, I presume. You’J 
pay twelve dollars a week ?” 

« Yes.” 

Only yourself and lady ?” 

« ThaVs all.” 

Very well, sir; you can have the room.” 

It’s a bargain, then. My name is Ring. Our 
week is up to-day where we are ; and, if it is agree- 
able, we will become your guests to-morrow.” 

Perfectly agreeable, Mr. Ring.” 

The gentleman bowed politely and retired. 

Now Mrs. Darlington did not feel very comfort- 
able when she reflected on what she had done. The 
rooms in the second story were positively engaged 
to Mr. Scragg, and now one of them was as posi- 
tively engaged to Mr. Ring. The face of Mr. 
Scragg she remembered very well. It was a hard, 
sinister face, just such a one as we rarely forget bo- 


56 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


cause of the disagreeable impression it makes. Ai 
it came up distinctly before the eyes of her mind, 
she was oppressed with a sense of coming trouble. 
Nor did she feel altogether satisfied with what she 
had done — satisfied in her own conscience. 

On the next morning, Mr. and Mrs. Ring came 
and took possession of the room previously engaged 
to Mr. Scragg. They were pleasant people, and 
made a good first impression. 

As day after day glided past, Mrs. Darlington 
felt more and more uneasy about Mr. Scragg, with 
whom, she had a decided presentiment, there would 
be trouble. Had she known where to find him, she 
would have sent him a note, saying that she had 
changed her mind about the rooms, and could not 
let him have them. But she was ignorant of hi& 
address ; and the only thing left for her was to wait 
until he came on Monday, and then get over the 
difficulty in the best way possible. She and Edith 
had talked over the matter frequently, and had 
come to the determination to offer Mr. Scragg 
the two chambers in the third story for fourteen 
dollars. 

On Monday morning, Mrs. Darlington was ner- 
vous. This was the day on which Mr. Scragg and 
family were to arrive, and she felt that there would 
be trouble. 

Mr. Ring, and the other gentlemen boarders, left 
•oon after breakfast. About ten o’clock, the door- 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


57 


bell rang. Mrs. Darlington was in her room at the 
time changing her dress. Thinking that this might 
be the announcement of Mr. Scragg's arrival, she 
hurried through her dressing in order to get down 
to the parlour as quickly as possible to meet him and 
the difficulty that was to be encountered ; hut before 
she was in a condition to be seen, she heard a man’s 
voice on the stairs, saying — 

Walk up, my dear. The rooms on the second 
floor are ours.” 

Then came the noise of many feet in the passage, 
and the din of children’s voices. Mr. Scragg and 
iiis family had arrived. 

Mrs. Ring was sitting with the morning paper k 
her hand, when her door was flung widely opeq 
and a strange man stepped boldly in, saying, as hi 
did so, to the lady who followed him — 

This is one of the chambers.” 

Mrs. Ring arose, bowed, and looked at the in- 
truders with surprise and embarrassment. Just 
then, four rude children bounded into the room, 
spreading themselves around it, and making them- 
selves perfectly at home. 

There is some mistake, I presume,” said Mrs. 
Scragg, on perceiving a lady in the room, whose 
manner said plainly enough that they were out of 
their place. 

Oh DO ! no mistake at all,” replied Scragg 
« Tf are the two rooms I engaged.” 


58 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


Just then Mrs. Darlington entered, in manifosi 
excitement. 

^^Walk down into the parlour, if you please,’ 
said she. 

These are our rooms,” said Scragg, showing 
no inclination to vacate the premises. 

“ Be kind enough to walk down into the parlour,” 
repeated Mrs. Darlington, whose sense of propriety 
was outraged by the man’s conduct, and who felt a 
corresponding degree of indignation. 

With some show of reluctance, this invitation 
was acceded to, and Mr. Scragg went muttering 
down stairs, followed by his brood. The moment 
lie left the chamber, the door was shut and locked 
oy Mrs. Bing, who was a good deal frightened by sc 
jinexpected an intrusion. 

What am I to understand by this, madam ?” 
said Mr. Scragg, fiercely, as soon as they had all 
reached the parlour, planting his hands upon his hips 
as he spoke, drawing himself up, and looking at 
Mrs. Darlington with a lowering countenance. 

. ^^Take a seat, madam,” said Mrs. Darlington, 
addressing the man’s wife in a tone of forced com* 
posure. She was struggling for self-possession. 

The lady sat down. 

Will you be good enough to explain the mean, 
ing of all this, madam ?” repeated Mr. Scragg. 

The meaning is simply,” replied Mrs. Darling- 
ton, <Uhat I have let the front room in the second 


TAjviNG BOARDERS. 


59 


story to a gentleman and his wife for twelve dollars 
a week.^' 

^^The dense you have said Mr. Scragg, with a 
particular exhibition of gentlemanly indignation 
** And pray, madam, didn’t you let both the rooms 
in the second story to me for sixteen dollars 
‘adid; but”— 

*^Oh, very well. That’s all I wish to know 
about it. The rooms were rented to me, and from 
that day became mine. Please to inform the lady 
and her husband that I am here with my family, 
and desire them to vacate the chambers as quickly 
^s possible. I’m a man that knows his rights, and, 
knowing, always maintains them.” 

You cannot have the rooms, sir. That is out 
>f the question,” said Mrs. Darlington, looking both 
iistressed and indignant. 

And I tell you that I will have them !” replied 
Scragg, angrily. 

“ Peter ! Peter ! Don’t act so,” now interposed 
Mrs. Scragg. There’s no use in it.” 

Ain’t there, indeed ? We’ll see. Madam” — 
he addressed Mrs. Darlington — will you be kind 
enough to inform the lady and gentleman who now 
occupy one of our rooms” — 

“ Mr. Scragg !” said Mrs. Darlington, in whoso 
fainting heart his outrageous conduct had awakened 
something of the right spirit — “ Mr. Scragg, I wish 
you to understand, once for all, that the front room 


60 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


IS taken and now occupied, and that you cannot 
have it/* 

Madam V* 

It’s no use for you to waste words, sir I Whal 
I say I mean. I have other rooms in the house 
very nearly as good, and am willing to take you for 
something less in consideration of this disappoint- 
ment. If that will meet your views, well ; if not, 
let us have no more words on the subject.” 

There was a certain something in Mrs. Darling- 
ton’s tone of voice that Scragg understood to mean 
a fixed purpose. Moreover, his mind caught at the 
‘idea of getting boarded for something less than six-^ 
teen dollars a week. 

Where are the rooms ?” he asked gruffly . 

The third story chambers.” 

« Front ?” 

« Yes.” 

I don’t want to go to the third story.” 

Very well. Then you can have the back 
<>fiamber down stairs, and the front chamb-er 
above.” 

What will be your charge ?” 

Fourteen dollars.” 

“ That will do, Peter,” said Mrs. Scragg. << Two 
dollars a week is considerable abatement,” 

It’s something, of course. But I don’t like 
this off and on kind of business. When I make an 
agreement, I’m up to the mark, and expect the sama 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


61 


from everybody else. Will you let my wife see the 
rooms, madam 

“ Certainly,^’ replied Mrs. Darlington, and moved 
towards the door. Mrs. Scragg followed, and so 
did all the juvenile Scraggs — the latter springing 
up the stairs with the agility of apes and the noise 
of a dozen rude schoolboys just freed from the terror 
of rod and ferule. 

The rooms suited Mrs. Scragg very well — at least 
such was her report to her husband — and, after some 
further rudeness on the part of Mr. Scragg, and an 
<jffort to beat Mrs. Darlington down to twelve dol 
^ars a week, were taken, and forthwith occupied. 


CHAPTER ly. 

hlRS. Darlington was a woman of refinement 
herself, and had been used to the society of refined 
persons. She was, naturally enough, shocked at the 
coarseness and brutality of Mr. Scragg, and, ere an 
hour went by, in despair at the unmannerly rude- 
ness of the children, the oldest a stout, vulgar- 
looking boy, who went racing and rummaging about 
the house from the garret to the cellar. For a long 
time after her exciting interview with Mr. Scragg, 
she sat weeping and trembling in her own room, 
with Edith by her side, who sought earnestly ta 

ffSiafort aud ene^v.'age her. 

6 


62 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


Oh, Edith !’^ she sobbed, to think that we 
should be humbled to this I” 

Necessity has forced us into our present unhap- 
py position, mother,^' replied Edith. Let us meet 
its difficulties with as brave hearts as possible.^^ 

I shall never be able to treat that dreadful man 
with even common civility,’^ said Mrs Darlington. 

We have accepted him as our guest, mother, 
and it will be our duty to make all as pleasant and 
comfortable as possible. We will have to bear 
much, I see — much beyond what I had anticipated.^' 
Mrs. Darlington sighed deeply as she replied — 
Yes, yes, Edith. Ah, the thought makes mf 
miserable V* 

No more of that sweet drawing together in ou) 
own dear home circle," remarked Edith, sadly. 

Henceforth we are to bear the constant presence 
and intrusion of strangers, with whom we have few 
or no sentiments in common. We open our house 
and take in the ignorant, the selfish, the vulgar, and 
feed them for a certain price ! Does not the thought 
bring a feeling of painful humiliation ? What can 
pay for all this ? Ah me ! The anticipation had in 
it not a glimpse of what we have found in our brief 
experience. Except Mr. and Mrs. Ring, there isn’t 
a lady nor gentleman in the house. That Mason is 
so rudely familiar that I cannot bear to come near 
him. He’s making himself quite intimate with 
Henry already, and I don’t like to see it/' 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


63 


**Nor do replied Mrs. Darlingtoii. Henry’s 
been out with him twice to the theatre already.” 

I’m afraid of his influence over Henry. He’s 
not the kind of a companion he ought to choose,” 
said Edith. And then Mr. Barling is with Miriam 
in the parlour almost every evening. He asks her to 
sing, and she says she doesn’t like to refuse.” 

The mother sighed deeply. While they were 
conversing, a servant came to their room to say that 
Mr. Bing was in the parlour, and wished to speak 
with Mrs. Darlington. It was late in the afternoon 
of the day on which the Scraggs had made their 
appearance. 

With a presentiment of trouble, Mrs. Darlington 
went down to the parlour. 

Madam,” said Mr. Ring, as soon as she entered, 
speaking in a firm voice, I find that my wife has 
been grossly insulted by a fellow whose family you 
have taken into your house. Now they must leave 
here, or we will, and that forthwith.” 

^^I regret extremely,” replied Mrs. Darlington, 
<^the unpleasant occurrence to which you allude; 
but I do not see how it is possible for me to turn 
these people out of the house.” 

^‘Very well, ma’am. Suit yourself about that 
You can choose between us. Both can’t remain.” 

If I were to tell this Mr. Scragg to seek another 
boarding-house, he would insult me,” said Mrs. 
Darlington. 


64 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


Strange that you would take such a fellow intc 
your house \” 

My rooms were vacant, and I had to fill 
them/' 

Better to have let them remain vacant. But 
this is neither here nor there. If this fellow re- 
mains, we go." 

And go they did on the next day. Mrs. Darling- 
ton was afraid to approach Mr. Scragg on the subject. 
Had she done so, she would have received nothing 
but abuse. 

Two weeks afterward, the room vacated by Mr. 
and Mrs. Bing was taken by a tall, fine-looking 
man, who wore a pair of handsome whiskers and 
dressed elegantly. He gave his name as Burton, 
and agreed to pay eight dollars. Mrs. Darlington 
liked him very much. There was a certain style 
about him that evidenced good breeding and a 
knowledge of the world. What his business was 
he did not say. He was usually in the house as 
late as ten o’clock in the morning, and rarely came 
in before twelve at night. 

Soon after Mr. Burton became a member of Mrs. 
Darlington’s household, he began to show particular 
attentions to Miriam, who was in her nineteenth 
year, and was, as we have said, a gentle, timid, 
shrinking girl. Though she did not encourage, she 
would not reject the attentions of the polite and 
tlegant stranger, who had so much that was agree- 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


65 


able to say that she insensibly acquired a kind of 
prepossession in his favour. 

As now constituted, the family of Mrs. Darlington 
was not so pleasant and harmonious as could hava 
been desired. Mr. Scragg had already succeeded 
in making himself so disagreeable to the other 
boarders, that they were scarcely civil to him j and 
Mis. Grimes, who was quite gracious with Mrs. 
Scragg at first, no longer spoke to her. They had 
fallen out about some trifle, quarrelled, and then cut 
each other’s acquaintance. When the breakfast, 
dinner, or tea bell rang, and the boarders assembled 
at the table, there was generally, at first, an embar- 
rassing silence. Scragg looked like a bull-dog wait- 
ing for an occasion to bark ; ]\Irs. Scragg sat with 
her lips closely compressed and her head partly 
turned away, so as to keep her eyes out of the line 
of vision with Mrs. Grimes’s face ; while Mrs. Grimes 
gave an occasional glance of contempt towards the 
lady with whom she had had a “ tiff.” Barling and 
Mason, observing all this, and enjoying it, were 
generally the first to break the reigning silence; 
and this was usually done by addressing some re- 
mark to Scragg, for no other reason, it seemed, than 
to hear his growling reply. Usually, they succeeded 
in drawing him into an argument, when they would 
goad him until he became angry ; a species of irrita- 
tion in which they never suffered themselves to in- 
dulge. As for Mr. Grimes, he was a man of few 


66 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


words. When spoken to, he would reply ; but he 
never made conversation. The only man who really 
behaved like a gentleman was Mr. Burton ; and the 
contrast seen in him naturally prepossessed the 
family in his favour. 

The first three months’ experience in taking board- 
ers was enough to make the heart of Mrs. Darling- 
ton sick. All domestic comfort was gone. From 
early morning until late at night, she toiled harder 
than any servant in the house; and, with all, had a 
mind pressed down with care and anxiety. Three 
times during this period she had been obliged to 
change her cook, yet, for all, scarcely a day passed 
that she did not set badly cooked food before her 
guests. Sometimes certain of the boarders com- 
plained, and it generally happened that rudeness 
accompanied the complaint. The sense of pain that 
attended this was always most acute, for it was ac- 
companied by deep humiliation and a feeling of 
helplessness. Moreover, during these first three 
months, Mr. and Mrs. Grimes had left the house 
without paying their board for five weeks, thus throw- 
ing her into a loss of forty dollars. 

At the beginning of this experiment, after com- 
pleting the furniture of her nouse, Mrs. Darlington 
had about three hundred dollars. When the quar- 
ter’s bill for rent was paid, she had only a hundred 
and fifty dollars left. Thus, instead of making any 
thing by boarders^ so far, she had sunk a hundred 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


67 


and fifty dollars. This fact disheartened her dread- 
fully. Then, the effect upon almost every memhei 
of her family had been bad. Harry was no longei 
the thoughtful, affectionate, innocent-minded young 
man of former days. Mason and Barling had intro- 
duced him into gay company, and, fascinated with 
a new and more exciting kind of life, he was fast 
forming associations and acquiring habits of a dan- 
gerous character. It was rare that he spent an even- 
ing at home ; and, instead of being of any assistance 
to his mother, was constantly making.* demands on 
her for money. The pain all this occasioned Mrs. 
Darlington was of the most distressing character. 
Since the children of Mr. and Mrs. Scragg came into 
the house, Edward and Ellen, who had heretofore 
been under the constant care and instruction of their 
mother, left almost entirely to themselves, associated 
constantly with these children, and learned from 
them to be rude, vulgar, and, in some things, even 
vicious. And Miriam had become apparently so 
much interested in Mr. Burton, who was constantly 
attentive to her, that both Mrs. Darlington and 
Edith became anxious on her account. Burton was 
an entire stranger to them all, and there were many 
things about him that appeared strange, if not 
wrong. 

So much for the experiment of taking boarders, 
after the lapse of a single quarter of a year. 


68 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


CHAPTER V. 

About this time a lady and gentleman, named 
Marion, called and engaged boarding for themselves 
and three children. In Mrs. Marion there was 
something that won the heart at first sight, and her 
children were as lovely and attractive as herself ; 
but towards her husband there was a feeling of in- 
stant repulsion. Not that he was coarse or rude in 
his exterior — that was polished ; but there were a 
sensualism and want of principle about him that 
could be felt. 

They had been in the house only a week or two, 
when their oldest child, a beautiful boy, was taken 
ill. He had fever, atid complained of distress in his 
back and pain in his head. The mother appeared 
anxious, but the father treated the matter lightly, 
and said he would be well again in a few hours. 

I think you’d better call in a doctor,” Mrs. 

^ Darlington heard the mother say, as her husband 
stood at the chamber door ready to go away. 

Nonsense, Jane,” he replied. You are easily 
frightened. There’s nothing serious the matter.” 

I’m afraid of scarlet fever, Henry,” was an 
Bwered to this 

Fiddlesticks ! You’re always afraid of some- 
thing,” was lightly and unkindly returned. 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


69 


Mrs. Marion said no more, and her husband went 
away. About half an hour afterwards, as Mrs. 
Darlington sat in her room, there was a light tap at 
her door, which was immediately opened, and Mrs. 
Marion stepped in. Her face was pale, and it was 
some moments before her quivering lips could arti- 
culate. 

^^WonH you come up and look at my Willy 
she at length said, in a tremulous voice. 

Certainly, ma^am,^^ replied Mrs. Darlington, 
rising immediately. What do you think ails your 
little boy?’^ 

I don't know, ma'am; but I'm afraid of scarlet 
fever — that dreadful disease." 

Mrs. Darlington went up to the chamber of Mrs. 
Marion. On the bed lay Willy, his face flushed 
with fever, and his eyes wearing a glassy lustre. 

‘^Do you feel sick, my dear?" asked Mrs. Dar- 
lington, as she laid her hand on his burning fore- 
head. 

Yes, ma'am," replied the child. 

Where are you sick ?" 

My head aches." 

Is your throat sore ?" 

Yes, ma'am." 

Very sore ?" 

It hurts me so that I can hardly swallow." 

What do you think ails him ?" asked the mo- 
ther, in anxious tones. 


70 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


It's hard to say, Mrs. Marion ; but, if it wer« 
my case, I would send for a doctor. Who is youi 
physician 

a 

If you would like to have him called in, I will 
send the waiter to his office." 

Mrs. Marion looked troubled and alarmed. 

My husband doesn't think it any thing 
serious," said she. I wanted him to go for the 
doctor." 

Take my advice, and send for a physician," re- 
plied Mrs. Darlington. 

‘^If you will send for Dr. M , I will feel 

greatly obliged," said Mrs. Marion. 

The doctor was sent for immediately. He did 
not come for two hours, in which time Willy had 
grown much worse. He looked serious, and an- 
swered all questions evasively. After writing a 
prescription, he gave a few directions, and said he 
would call again in the evening. At his second 
visit, he found his patient much worse; and, on the 
following morning, pronounced it a case of scarla- 
tina. 

Already, Willy had made a friend in every mem- 
ber of Mrs. Darlington’s family, and the announce- 
ment of his dangerous illness was received with 
acute pain. Miriam took her place beside Mrs. 
Marion in the sick chamber, all her sympathies 
alive, and all her fears awakened; and Edith and 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


7i 

her mother gave every attention that their othei 
duties in the household would permit. 

Rapidly did the disease, which had fixed itself 
upon the delicate frame of the child, run its fatal 
course. On the fourth day he died in the arms of 
his almost frantic mother. 

Though Mrs. Marion had been only a short time 
in the house, yet she had already deeply interested 
the feelings of Mrs. Darlington and her two eldest 
daughters, who suffered with her in the affliction 
almost as severely as if they had themselves expe- 
rienced a bereavement; and this added to the weight, 
already painfully oppressive, that rested upon them. 

The nearer contact into which the family of Mrs, 
Darlington and the bereaved mother were brought 
by this affliction, discovered to the former many 
things that strengthened the repugnance first felt 
towards Mr. Marion, and awakened still livelier 
sympathies for his suffering wife. 

One evening, a week after the body of the child 
was borne out by the mourners and laid to moulder 
in its kindred dust, the voice of Mr. Marion was 
heard in loud, angry tones. He was alone with his 
wife in their chamber. This chamber was next to 
that of Edith and Miriam, where they, at the time, 
happened to be. What he said they could not make 
out; but they distinctly heard the voice of Mrs. 
Marion, and the words — 

Oh, Henry ! donH ! don’t !” uttered in tones the 


72 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


most agonizing. They also heard the words, “ For 
the sake of our dear, dear Willy I” used in somo 
appeal. 

Both Edith and Miriam were terribly frightened, 
and sat panting and looking at each other with pale 
faces. 

All now became silent. Not a sound could be 
heard in the chamber save an occasional low sob. 
For half an hour this silence continued. Then the 
door of the chamber was opened, and Marion went 
down stairs. The closing of the front door an- 
nounced his departure from the house. Edith and 
her sister sat listening for some minutes after Marion 
had left, but not a movement could they perceive 
in the adjoining chamber. 

Strange ! What can it mean V* at length said 
Miriam, in a husky whisper. Edith breathed hea- 
vily to relieve the pressure on her bosom, but made 
no answer. 

^‘He didn’t strike her?” said Miriam, her face 
growing paler as she made this suggestion. 

The moment this was uttered, Edith arose quickly 
and moved towards the door. 

Where are you going?” asked her sister. 

Into Mrs. Marion’s room.” 

Oh no, don’t !” returned Miriam, speaking from 
gome vague fear that made her heart shrink. 

But Edith did not heed the words. Her light tap 
at Mrs. Marion’s door was not answered. Opening 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


73 


it softly, she stepped within the chamber. On the 
bed, where she had evidently thrown herself, la^ 
Mrs. Marion; and, on approaching and bending over 
her, Edith discovered that she was sleeping. On 
perceiving this, she retired as noiselessly as she had 
entered. 

Ten, eleven, twelve o’clock came, and yet Mr 
Marion had not returned. An hour later than this, 
Edith and her sister lay awake, but up to that time 
he was still away. On the next morning, when the 
bell rang for breakfast, and the family assembled at 
the table, the places of Mr. and Mrs. Marion were 
vacant. From their nurse it was ascertained that 
Mr. Marion had not come home since he went out 
on the evening before, and that his wife had not yet 
arisen. Between nine and ten o’clock, Mrs. Bar 
lington sent up to know if Mrs. Marion wished any 
thing, but was answered in the negative. At dinner 
time Mr. Marion did not make his appearance, and 
his wife remained in her chamber. Food was sent 
to her, but it was returned untasted. 

During the afternoon, Mrs. Darlington knocked at 
her door, but the nurse said that Mrs. Marion asked 
to be excused from seeing her. At supper time food 
was sent again to her room; but, save part of a cup 
of tea, nothing was tasted. After tea, Mrs. Dar- 
lington called again at her room, but the desire to 
be excused from seeing her was repeated. Marion 
did not return that night. 

T 


74 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


Nearly a week passed, the husband still remain* 
ing away, and not once during that time had Mrs. 
Marion been seen by any member of the family. 
At the end of this period, she sent word to Mrs. 
Darlington that she would be glad to see her. 

When the latter entered her room, she found her 
lying upon the bed, with a face so pale and grief- 
stricken, that she could not help an exclamation of 
painful surprise. 

My dear madam, what has happened?” said she, 
as she took her hand. 

Mrs. Marion was too much overcome by emotion 
to be able to speak for some moments. Acquiring 
self-possession at length, she said, in a low, sad 
voice — 

My heart is almost broken, Mrs. Darlington. 1 
feel crushed to the very ground. How shall I speak 
of what I am suffering?” 

Her voice quivered and failed. But in a few 
moments she recovered herself again, and said, more 
calmly — 

I need not tell you that my husband has been 
absent for a week ; he went away in a moment of 
anger, vowing that he would never return. Hourly 
have 1 waited since, in the hope that he would como 
back ; but, alas ! I have thus far received from him 
neither word nor sign.” 

Mrs. Marion here gave way to her feelings, and 
wept bitterly. 


TAKING BOARDERS. 75 

he ever leave you before?^’ asked Mrs. 
Darlington, as soon as she had grown calm. 

** Once.” 

How long did he remain away ?” 

More than a year.” 

Have you friends ?” 

have no relative but an aunt, who is very 

poor.” 

Mrs. Darlington sighed involuntarily. On that 
very day she had been seriously examining into her 
affairs, and the result was a conviction that, under 
her present range of expenses, she must go behind- 
hand with great rapidity. Mr. and Mrs. Marion 
were to pay fourteen dollars a week. Thus far, 
nothing had been received from them ; and now the 
husband had gone off and left his family on her 
hands. She could not turn them off, yet how could 
she bear up under this additional burden ! 

All this passed through her mind in a moment, 
and produced the sigh which distracted her bosom. 

‘^Do you not know where he has gone?” she 
asked, seeking to throw as much sympathy and in- 
terest in her voice as possible, and thus to conceal 
the pressure upon her own feelings which the intel- 
ligence had occasioned. 

Mrs. Marion shook her head. She knew that, in 
the effort to speak, her voice would fail her. 

For nearly the space of a minute there was silence. 
This was broken, at length, by Mrs. Marion, who 


76 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


again wept violently. As soon as the passionate 
hurst of feeling was over, Mrs. Darlington said to 
her in a kind and sympathizing voice — 

^^Do not grieve so deeply. You are not friend- 
less altogether. Though you have been with us 
only a short time, we feel an interest in you, and 
will not’' — 

The sentence remained unfinished. There was 
an impulse in Mrs. Darlington's mind to proffer the 
unhappy woman a home for herself and children ; 
but a sudden recollection of the embarrassing nature 
of her own circumstances checked the words on her 
longue. 

I cannot remain a burden upon you," quickly 
answered Mrs. Marion. ^^But where can I go? 
What shall I do?" 

The last few words were spoken half to herself, in 
a low tone of distressing despondency. 

For the present," said Mrs. Darlington, anxious 
to mitigate, even in a small degree, the anguish of 
the unhappy woman's mind, let this give you no 
trouble. Doubtless the way will open before you. 
After the darkest hour the morning breaks." 

Yet, even while Mrs. Darlington sought thus to 
give comfort, her own heart felt the weight upon it 
gi’owing heavier. Scarcely able to stand up in her 
difficulties alone, here was a new burden laid upon 
her 

None could have sympathized more deeply with 


TA.KINa BOARDERS. 


77 


the aflSicted mother and deserted wife than did Mrs. 
Darlington and her family; and none could have 
extended more willingly a helping hand in time of 
need. But, in sustaining the burden of her support, 
they felt that the additional weight was bearing 
them under. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Three months more elapsed. Mrs. Marion was 
still an inmate of the family. Up to this time, not 
a word had come from her husband, and she had not 
been able to pay Mrs. Darlington a single dollar. 
Painfully did she feel her dependent situation, al- 
though she was treated with the utmost delicacy and 
consideration. But all the widow’s means were now 
exhausted in the payment of the second quarter’s 
rent, and she found her weekly income reduced to 
thirty-five dollars, scarcely sufficient to meet the 
weekly expense for supplying the table, paying the 
servants, etc., leaving nothing for future rent, bills, 
the cost of clothing, and education for the younger 
children With all this, Mrs. Darlington’s duties 
had been growing daily more and more severe. 
Nothing could be trusted to servants that was not, 
m some way, defectively done, causing repeated 
complaints from the boarders. What proved most 
annoying was the bad cooking, to remedy which 


78 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


Mrs. Darlington strove in vain. One day the coffee 
was not fit to drink, and on the next day the steak 
would be burnt or broiled as dry as a chip, or the 
sirloin roasted until every particle of juice had 
evaporated. If hot cakes were ordered for break- 
fast, ten chances to one that they were not sour ; or, 
if rolls were baked, they would, most likely, be as 
heavy as lead. 

Such mishaps were so frequent, that the guests of 
Mrs. Darlington became impatient, £^nd Mr. Scragg, 
in particular, never let an occasion for grumbling or 
insolence pass without fully improving it. 

Is your coal out said he, one morning, about 
this time, as he sat at the breakfast table. 

Mrs. Darlington understood, by the man’s tone 
and manner, that he meant to be rude, though she 
did not comprehend the meaning of the question. 

No, sir,” she replied, with some dignity of man- 
ner. Why do you ask ?” 

It struck me,” he answered, that such might 
be the case. But, perhaps, cook is too lazy to bring 
it out of the cellar. If she’ll send for me to-morro\^ 
morning. I’ll bring her up an extra scuttleful, as I 
particularly like a good cup of hot coffee.” 

His meaning was now plain. Quick as thought 
the blood rushed to the face of Mrs. Darlington. 
She had borne so much from this man, and fel< 
towards him such utter disgust, that she could for 
bear no longer 


TAKING BOARDERS, 


79 


‘‘Mr. Scragg/' said she, with marked indigni- 
tion, when a gentleman has any complaint to make, 
he does it as a gentleman/’ 

Madam I” exclaimed Scragg, with a threat in 
his voice, while his coarse face became red with 
anger. 

When a gentleman has any complaint to make, 
he does it as a gentleman,” repeated Mrs. Darling- 
ton, with a more particular emphasis than at first. 

I’d thank you to explain yourself,” said Scragg, 
dropping his hands from the table, and elevating his 
person. 

My words convey my meaning plainly enough. 
But, if you cannot understand, I will try to make 
them clearer. Your conduct is not that of a gen- 
tleman.” 

Of course, Mr. Scragg asked for no further ex- 
planation. Starting from the table, he said, looking 
at Mrs. Scragg — 

^^Come!” 

And Mrs. Scragg arose and followed her indig- 
nant spouse. 

Served him right,” remarked Burton, in a low 
voice, bending a little towards Miriam, who sat near 
him. I hope we shall now be rid of the low-bred 
fellow.” 

Miriam was too much disturbed to make a reply. 
All at the table felt more or less uncomfortable, and 
Boon retired. Ere dinner time, Mr. and Mrs. Scragg, 


80 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


with their whole brood, had left the house, thus 
reducing the income of Mrs. Darlington from thirty- 
five to twenty-three dollars a week. 

At dinner time, Mrs. Darlington was in bed. The 
reaction which followed the excitement of the morn- 
ing, accompanied as it was with the conviction that, 
in parting with the Scraggs, insufferable as they 
were, she had parted with the very means of sustain- 
ing herself, completely prostrated her. During the 
afternoon, she was better, and was able to confer 
with Edith on the desperate nature of their affairs. 

What are we to do ?” said she to her daughter, 
breaking thus abruptly a silence which had con- 
tinued for many minutes. We have an income 
of only twenty-three dollars a week, and that will 
scarcely supply the table.^^ 

Edith sighed, but did not answer. 

‘^Twenty-three dollars a week,” repeated Mrs. 
Darlington. “ What are we to do ?” 

“ Our rooms will not remain vacant long, I hope,” 
said Edith. 

“ There is little prospect of filling them that I can 
see,” murmured Mrs. Darlington. “ If all our 
rooms were taken, we might get along.” 

I don’t know,” returned Edith to this, speaking 
thoughtfully. “ I sometimes think that our ex- 
penses are too great for us to make any thing, even 
if our rooms were filled. Six hundred dollars is a 
large rent for us to pay.” 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


81 


^^WeVe sunk three hundred dollars in six months. 
That is certain/' said Mrs. Darlington. 

^'And our furniture has suffered to an extent 
almost equivalent/' added her daughter. 

Oh, do not speak of that ! The thought makes 
me sick. Our handsome French china dinner set, 
which cost us a hundred and fifty dollar^ is com- 
pletely ruined. Half of the plates are broken, and 
there is scarcely a piece of it not injured or defaced. 
My heart aches to see the destruction going on 
around us." 

“I was in Mr. Scragg's room to-day," said 
Edith. 

“ Well, what of it ?" asked her mother. 

It would make you sick in earnest to look in 
there. You know the beautiful bowl and pitcher 
that were in her chamber ?" 

^^Yes." 

“ Both handle and spout are off of the pitcher." 
Edith !" 

And the bowl is cracked from the rim to the 
centre. Then the elegant rosewood washstand is 
completely ruined. Two knobs are off of the dress- 
ing-bureau, the veneering stripped from the edge of 
one of the drawers, and the whole surface marked 
over in a thousand lines. It looks as if the children 
had amused themselves by the hour in scratching it 
with pins. Three chairs are broken. And the new 
carpet we put on the floor looks as if it had been 


82 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


used for ten years. Moreover, every thing is in 3 
most filthy condition. It is shocking.’^ 

Mrs. Darlington fairly groaned at this intelligence. 
But where is it all to lead, Edith T’ she asked, 
arousing herself from a kind of stupor into which 
her mind had fallen. We cannot go on as we are 
now going.^' 

We must reduce our expenses, if possible.^' 
^‘But how are we to reduce them? We cannot 
send away the cook.^' 

No. Of course not. 

Nor our chambermaid.^^ 

No. But cannot we dispense with the waiter ?^^ 
Who will attend the table, go to market, and 
do the dozen other things now required of him 
We can get our marketing sent home.’^ 

^^But the waiting on the table. Who wdll do 
that r 

Half a dollar a week extra to the chambermaid 
will secure that service from her.'’ 

“ But she has enough to do besides waiting on 
the table," objected Mrs. Darlington. 

Miriam and I will help more through the house 
than we have yet done. Three dollars a week and 
the waiter’s board will be saving a good deal.’’ 

Mrs. Darlington sighed heavily, and then said — 
To think what 1 have borne from that Scragg 
and his family, ignorant, low-bred, vulgar people, 
with whom we have no social alfinity whatever, who 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


83 


occupy a level far below us, and who yet put cn airs 
and treat us as if we were only their servants ! I 
could bear his insolence no longer. Ah, to what 
mortifications are we not subjected in our present 
position ! How little dreamed I of all this, when I 
decided to open a boarding-house! But, Edith, to 
come back to what we were conversing about, it 
would be something to save the expense of our 
waiter ; but what are three or four dollars a week, 
when we are going behind hand at the rate of 
twenty V* 

If Mrs. Marion^^ 

Edith checked herself, and did not say what was 
in her mind. Mrs. Darlington was silent, sighed 
again heavily, and then said — 

Yes ; if it wasn’t for the expense of keeping 
Mrs. Marion. And she has no claim upon us.” 

^^None but the claim of humanity,” said Edith. 

If we were able to pay that claim,” remarked 
Mrs. Darlington. 

True.” 

But we are not. Such being the case, are wo 
justified in any longer offering her a home ?” 

“ Where will she go ? What will she do ?” said 
Edith. 

Where will we go ? What will we do, unless 
there is a change in our favour ?” asked Mrs. Dar- 
lington. 

Alas, I cannot tell I When we are weak, small 


84 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


things are felt as a burden. The expense of keep- 
ing Mrs. Marion and her two children is not very 
great. Still, it is an expense that we are unable to 
meet. But how can we tell her to go 

I cannot take my children's bread and distribute 
it to others,” replied Mrs. Darlington, with much 
feeling. My first duty is to them.” 

Poor woman ! My heart aches for her,” said 
Edith. She looks so pale and heart-broken, feels 
so keenly her state of dependence, and tries so in 
every possible way to make the pressure of her 
presence in our family as light as possible, that the 
very thought of turning her from our door seems to 
involve cruelty.” 

“ All that, Edith, I feel most sensibly. Ah me I 
into what a strait are we driven 1” 

“How many times have I wished that we had 
never commenced this business !” said Edith. “ It 
has brought us nothing but trouble from the begin- 
ning; and, unless my fears are idle, some worse 
troubles are yet before us.” 

“ Of what kind if” 

Henry did not come home until after two o’clock 
this morning.” 

“ What !” exclaimed the mother in painful sur- 
prise. 

“ I sat up for him. Knowing that he had gone 
out with Mr. Barling, and, finding that he had not 
returned by eleven o’clock, I could not go to bed. I 


TAKING BOARDERS, 


86 


said nothing to Miriam, but sat up alone. It was 
nearly half past two when he came home in compa- 
ny with Barling. Both, I am sorry to say, were so 
much intoxicated, that they could scarcely make theil 
way up stairs.’^ 

Oh, Edith I” exclaimed the stricken mother, 
hiding her face in her hands, and weeping aloud. 

Miriam entered the room at this moment, and, 
seeing her mother in tears, and Edith looking the 
very image of distress, begged to know the cause of 
their trouble. Little was said to her then; but 
Edith, when she was alone with her soon after, fully 
explained the desperate condition of their affairs. 
Hitherto they had, out of regard for Miriam, con- 
cealed from her the nature of the difficulties that 
were closing around them. 

I dreamed not of this,^^ said Miriam, in a voice 
of anguish. My poor mother ! What pain she 
must suffer I No wonder that her countenance is so 
often sad. But, Edith, cannot we do something 
Ever thus, to the mind of the sweet girl, when 
the troubles of others were mentioned to her, came, 
first, the desire to afford relief. 

We can do nothing,’^ replied Edith, at pre- 
sent, unless it be to assist through the house, so that 
the chambermaid can attend the door, wait on the 
table, and do other things now required of the 
waiter.^^ 

And let him go 


8 


86 


TAKING BOARDERS 


“I am willing to do all in my power, Edith, 
said Miriam. ^^But, if mother has lost so much 
already, will she not lose still more if she continue 
to go on as she is now going "i” 

She hopes to fill all her rooms; then she thinks 
that she will be able to make something.^' 

This has been her hope from the first,’^ replied 
Miriam. 

^^Yes; and thus far it has been a vain hope.^^ 
Three hundred dollars lost already,’^ sighed 
Miriam, ‘^our beautiful furniture ruined, and all do- 
mestic happiness destroyed ! Ah me ! Where is 
all going to end? Uncle Hiram was right when he 
objected to mother’s taking boarders, and said that 
it was the worst thing she could attempt to do. I 
wish we had taken his advice. Willingly would I 
give music lessons or work with my hands for an 
income, to save mother from the suffering and labour 
she has now to bear.” 

The worst is,” said Edith, following out her own 
thoughts rather than replying to her sister, now 
that all our money is gone, debt will follow. How 
is the next quarter’s rent to be paid ?” 

A hundred and fifty dollars ?” 

Yes. How can we pay that ?” 

“ Oh dear !” sighed Miriam. What are we to 
do ? How dark all looks !” 

“ If there is not some change,” said Edith, by 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


87 


the close of another six months, every thing we have 
will be sold for debt.^^ 

Dreadful I” ejaculated Miriam, dreadful I” 
For a long time the sisters conferred together, but 
no gleam of light arose in their minds. All the 
future remained shrouded in darkness. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The man named Burton, to whom reference has 
been made as being particularly attentive to Miriam, 
was really charmed with the beautiful young girl. 
But the affection of a man such as he was comes to 
its object as a blight instead of a blessing. Miriam, 
while she did not repel his attentions, for his manner 
towards her was ever polite and respectful, felt, 
nevertheless, an instinctive repugnance towards him, 
and when she could keep out of his way without 
seeming to avoid him, she generally did so. 

A few evenings after the conversation held with 
Edith, as given in the last chapter. Burton, in pass- 
ing from the dining room, said to Miriam, — 

^^Come. I want you to play for me some of 
those beautiful airs in Don Giovanni.'^ 

Indeed you must excuse me, Mr. Burton, re- 
plied Miriam. I don’t feel like playing to-night.” 

“ Can’t excuse you, indeed,” said Burton, smiling 
pleasantly, and, at the same time, taking Miriam’s 


88 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


hand, which she quickly withdrew from his touch. 
The contact sent an unpleasant thrill along her 
nerves. ^*So come. I must have some music 
to-night.^^ 

Miriam yielded to the request, although she felt 
in no mood for touching the piano. After playing 
several pieces, she lifted her hands from the instru- 
ment, and, turning away from it, said, — 

There, Mr. Burton, you must really excuse me. 
I cannot play to-night.^ ^ 

Excuse you I Certainly. And for the pleasure 
you have given me, accept my thanks, replied Mr. 
Burton. There, was a change in his tone of voice 
which Miriam did not comprehend. ‘^And now,^' 
he added, in a low voice, bending to her ear, come 
and sit down with me on the sofa. I have some- 
thing particular that I wish to say.^^ 

Miriam did as she was desired, not dreaming of 
what was in the mind of Burton. 

Miriam,^' said he, after a pause, do not be 
startled nor surprised at what I am going to say.^' 
But his words and manner both startled her, and 
she was about rising, when he took her hand and 
gently detained her. 

Nay, Miriam,^^ said he, you must hear what 
I wish to speak. From the day I entered this house, 
you have interested me deeply. Admiration was 
followed quickly by profound respect; and to this 
succeeded a warmer sentiment.^' 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


89 


A deep crimson instantly mantled tlie face of 
Miriam, and her eye fell to the floor. 

Can you, my dear young lady,^^ continued Mr. 
Burton, reciprocate the feeling I have expressed V* 

Oh, sir ! Excuse me V* said Miriam, so soon 
as she could recover her disordered thoughts. And 
she made another efibrt to rise, but was still detained 
by Burton. 

Stay ! stay \” said he. Hear all that I wish to 
utter, I am rich’’ — 

But, ere he could speak another word, Miriam 
sprang from the sofa, and, bounding from the room, 
flew rather than walked up the stairs. The instant 
she entered her own room she closed and locked the 
door, and then, falling upon the bed, gave vent to a 
flood of tears. A long time passed before her spirit 
regained its former composure ; and then, when her 
thought turned towards Mr. Burton, she experi- 
enced an inward shudder. 

Of what had occurred, she breathed not a sylla- 
ble to Edith when she joined her in the chamber to 
retire for the night. 

How my heart aches for mother I” sighed Edith, 
as she came in. “ I have been trying to encourage 
her; but words are of no avail. ^ Where is all to 
end r she asks ; and I cannot answer the question. 
Oh dear ! What is to become of us ? At the rate 
we are going on now, every thing must soon be lest. 
To think of what we have sacrificed and are stii. 

8 * 


90 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


sacrificingj yet all to no purpose. Every comfoi't is 
gone. Strangers, who have no sympathy with us, 
have come into our house; and mother is compelled 
to bear all manner of indignities from people who 
are in every way her inferiors. Yet, for all, we are 
losing instead of gaining. Ah me ! No wonder she 
is heart-sick and utterly discouraged. How could 
it be otherwise V* 

Miriam heard and felt every word ; but she made 
no answer. Thought, however, was busy, and re- 
mained busy long after sleep had brought back to 
the troubled heart of Edith its even pulsations. 

I am rich.^’ These words of Mr. Burton were 
constantly recurring to her mind. It was in vain 
that she turned from the idea presented with them : 
it grew more and more distinct each moment. Yes, 
there was a way of relief opened for her mother, 
of safety for the family, and Miriam saw it plainly, 
yet shuddered as she looked, and closed her eyes, 
like one about to leap from a fearful height. 

Hour after hour Miriam lay awake, pondering 
the new aspect which things had assumed, and gazing 
down the fearful abyss into which, in a spirit of 
self-devotion, she was seeking to find the courage to 
leap. 

“ I am rich.^^ Ever and anon these words sound- 
ed in her ears. As the wife of Burton, she ‘ could 
at once lift her mother out of her present unhappy 
situation. Thus, before the hour of midnight came 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


91 


and went, she thought. He had offered her his 
hand. She might accept the offer, on condition of 
his settling an income upon her mother. 

This the tempter whispered in her ears, and shn 
hearkened, in exquisite pain, to the suggestion. 

When Edith awoke on the next morning, Miriam 
slept soundly by her side ; but Edith observed that 
her face was pale and troubled, and that tears were 
on her cheeks. At breakfast time, she did not ap- 
pear at the table; and when her mother sent to her 
room she returned for answer that she was not very 
well. The whole of the day she spent in her cham- 
ber, and, during all the time, was struggling against 
the instinctive repulsion felt towards the man who 
had made her an offer of marriage. 

At supper time, she reappeared at the table with a 
calm, yet sad face. As she was passing from the 
dining room after tea. Burton came to her side and 
whispered — 

Can I have a word with you in the parlour, Mi- 
riam ?” 

The young girl neither looked up nor spoke, bul 
moved along by his side, and descended with him to 
the parlour, where they were alone. 

Miriara,^^ said Burton, as he placed himself by 
her side on the sofa, have you thought seriously 
of what I said last evening ? Can you reciprocate 
the ardent sentiments I expressed 

Oh, sU’ V* returned Miriam, looking up artlessly 


92 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


in his face, I am too young to listen to words likft 
these. 

^^You are a woman, Miriam,^^ replied Burton, 
earnestly — a lovely woman, with a heart overflow- 
ing with pure affections. Deeply have you interest- 
ed my feelings from the first ; and now I ask you 
to be mine. As I was going to say last evening, I 
am rich, and will surround you with every comfort 
and elegance that money can obtain. Dearest Mi- 
riam, say that you will accept the hand I now offer 
you.^^ 

My mother will never consent,” said the trem- 
bling girl, after a long pause. 

Your mother is in trouble. I have long seen 
that,” remarked Mr. Burton, and have long want- 
ed to advise and befriend her. Put it in my power 
to do so, and then ask for her what you will.” 

This was touching the right key, and Burton saw 
it in a moment. 

Yes, you have said truly,” replied Miriam ; 
my mother is in great trouble. Ah ! what would 
I not do for her relief ?” 

Ask for your mother what you will, Miriam,” 
said Burton. 

The maiden’s eyes were upon the 5oor, and the 
rapid heaving of her bosom showed that her thoughts 
were busy in earnest debate. At length, looking 
up, she said — 

Will you lift her out of her present embarrassed 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


93 


position, and settle upon her an income sufficient for 
herself and family 

I will,’’ was the prompt answer. “ And noWj 
my dear Miriam, name the sum you wish her to 
receive.” 

Another long silence followed. 

Ah, sir !” at length said the maiden, in what 
a strange, humiliating position am I placed I” 

Do not speak thus, Miriam. I understand all 
better than words can utter it. Will an income of 
two thousand dollars a year suffice ?” 

It is more than I could ask.” 

Enough. The moment you are mine, that sum 
will be settled on your mother.” 

Miriam arose up quickly, as Burton said this, 
murmuring — 

Let me have a few days for reflection,” and, ere 
he could prevent her, glided from the room. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Two weeks more went by, and the pressure upon 
Mrs. Darlinp’ton was heavier and heavier. Her in- 

o 

come was below her table expenses and servant-hire, 
and all her reserve fund being exhausted, she felt 
the extremity of her circumstances more than at 
any time before. To bear longer the extra weight 
of poor, deserted Mrs. Marion and her two children 


94 


TAKING LOARDEKS. 


was felt; to be impossible. With painful reluctance 
did Mrs. Darlington slowly make up her mind tc 
say to Mrs. Marion that she must seek anothei 
home ; and for this purpose she one day waited upon 
her in her room. As tenderly and as delicately as 
possible did she approach the subject. A word or 
two only had she said, when Mrs. Marion, with tears 
upon her face, replied, — 

Pardon me that I have so long remained a bur- 
den upon you. Had I known where to go, or what 
to do, I would not have added my weight to the 
heavy ones you have had to bear. Daily have I 
lived in hope that my husband would return. But 
my heart is sick with hope deferred. It is time 
now that I began the work of self-dependence.^^ 
“Where can you go asked Mrs. Darlington. 

“ I know not,’^ sadly returned Mrs. Marion. 
“ My only relative is a poor aunt, with scarcely the 
ability to support herself. But I will see her to- 
day. Perhaps she can advise me what to do.^^ 
When Mrs. Marion returned from this visit to 
her aunt, she looked very sad. Mrs. Darlington 
was in the passage as she came in ; but she passed 
her without speaking, and hurried up to her cham- 
ber. Neither at tea time on that evening nor at 
breakfast time on the next morning did she appear, 
though food for herself and children was sent to 
her room. Deeply did Mrs. Darlington and her 
daughters suffer on account of the step they were 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


95 


compelled to take, but stern necessity left them no 
alternative. During the day, Mrs. Marion went 
out again for an hour or two, and when she came 
back she announced that she would leave on the 
next day. She looked even sadder than before. 
Some inquiries as to where she was going were 
made, but she evaded them. On the day following, 
a carriage came for her, and she parted with her 
kind friends, uttering the warmest expressions of 
gratitude. 

I have turned her from the house V* said Mrs. 
Darlington, in a tone of deep regret, as she closed 
the door upon the poor creature. How would I 
like my own child treated thus 

For the rest of the day she was so unhappy, 
owing to this circumstanee, that she could scarcely 
attend to any thing. 

Do you know where Mrs. Marion went when 
she left our house said Edith to her mother, 
about two weeks afterwards. There was a troubled 
look in Edith^s face as she asked this question. 

No. Where is she 

At Blockley.^^ 

What I” 

In the Alms-house !” 

Edith V* 

It is too true. I have just learned that, when 
she left here, it was to take up her abodf. among 
paupers. She had no other home.^' 


96 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


Mrs. Darlington clasped her hands together, and 
was about giving expression to her feelings, when a 
domestic came in and said that Mr. Ellis was in the 
parlour, and wished to see her immediately. 

“ Where is Miriam 1” asked the brother, in a 
quick voice, the moment Mrs. Darlington entered 
the parlour, where he awaited her. 

She^s in her room, I believe. Why do you ask 
Are you certain ? Go up, Edith, quickly, and 
see.” 

The manner of Mr. Ellis was so excited that 
Edith did not pause to hear more, but flew up stairs. 
In a few moments she returned, saying that her 
sister was not there, and that, moreover, on looking 
into her drawers, she found them nearly empty. 

“ Then it wa^ her V’ exclaimed Mr. Ellis. 

“Where is she? Where did you see her?’' 
eagerly asked both mother and sister, their faces 
becoming as pale as ashes. 

“ I saw her in a carriage with a notorious gam- 
bler and scoundrel named Burton. There was a 
trunk on behind, and they were driving towards the 
wharf. It is ten minutes before the boat starts for 
New York, and I may save her yet !” 

And, with these words, Mr. Ellis turned abruptly 
away, and hurried from the house. So paralyzed 
were both Mrs. Darlington and Edith by this dread- 
ful announcement, that neither of them had for a 
time the power of utterance. Then both, as by a 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


97 


common impulse, arose and went up to the chamber 
where Miriam slept. Almost the first thing that 
met the eyes of Mrs. Darlington was a letter, partly 
concealed by a book on the mantel-piece. It was 
addressed to her. On breaking the seal, she read — 

“ My dear, dear Mother : I shall be away from 
you only a little while; and, when I return, I will 
come with relief for all your present troubles. Do 
not blame me, dear mother ! What I have done is 
for your sake. It almost broke my heart to see you 
so pressed down and miserable. And, then, there 
was no light ahead. Mr. Burton, who has great 
wealth, offered me his hand. Only on condition of 
a handsome settlement upon you would I accept of 
it. Forgive me that I have acted without consulta- 
tion. I deemed it best. In a little while, I will 
be back to throw myself into your arms, and then 
to lift you out of your many troubles. How purely 
and tenderly I love you, mother, dear mother ! I need 
not say. It is from this love that I am now acting. 
Take courage, mother. Be comforted. We shall 
yet be happy. Farewell, for a little while. In a 
few days I will be with you again. 

Miriam.^' 

As Mrs. Darlington read the last sentence of thia 
letter, Henry, her son, who had not been home since 
he went out at breakfast-time, came hurriedly into 
the room, and, in an excited manner, said — 


98 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


“ Mother, I want ten dollars 

The face of the young man was flushed, and his 
eyes unsteady. It was plain, at a glance, that he 
had been drinking. 

Mrs. Darlington looked at him for a moment, and 
then, before Edith had seen the contents of Miriam’s 
letter, placed it in his hands. 

“What does this mean?” he exclaimed, after 
running his eyes over it hurriedly. “ Miriam gone 
oflF with that Burton I” 

The letter dropped upon the floor, and Henry 
clasped his hands together with a gesture of pain. 

“Who is Mr. Burton? What do you know of 
him?” asked Edith. 

“ I know him to be a man of the vilest character, 
and a gambler into the bargain ! Rich 1 Gracious 
heaven I” 

And the young man struck his hands against his 
forehead, and glanced wildly from his pale-faced 
mother to his paler sister. 

“ And you knew the character of this man, Hen- 
ry !” said Mrs. Darlington. There was a smiting 
rebuke in her tone. “ You knew him, and did not 
make the first eflbrt to protect your young, confid- 
ing, devoted sister ! Henry Darlington, the blood 
®f her murdered happiness will never be washed 
from the skirts of your garments I” 

“ Mother ! mother !” exclaimed the young man, 
putting up his hands to eufo’rce the deprecation in 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


99 


his voice, do not speak so, or I will go beside mj- 
yelf! But where is she? When did she go? 1 
will flj in pursuit. It may not yet be too late.’" 

Your Uncle Hiram saw her in a carriage with 
Mr. Burton, on their way, as he supposed, to the 
steamboat landing. He has gone to intercept them, 
if possible.” 

Henry drew his watch from his pocket, and, as 
he glanced at the time, sank into a chair, murmur- 
ing, in a low voice of anguish — 

“ It is too late 1” 


CHAPTER IX. 

When Mr. Ellis left the house of his sister, he 
called a carriage that happened to be going by, and 
reached the wharf at Walnut street in time to spring 
on board of the steamboat just as the plank was 
drawn in at the gangway. He then passed along 
the boat until he came to the ladies^ cabin, which 
he entered. Almost the first persons he saw were 
Burton and his niece. The eyes of Miriam rested 
upon him at the same moment, and she drew her 
veil quickly, hoping that she was not recognised. 
Hiram Ellis did not hesitate a moment, but, walking 
up to where Miriam sat, stooped to her ear, and said, 
in a low, anxious voice — 

Miriam, are you married yet ?” 


100 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


Miriam did not reply. 

Speak, child. Are you married 

came in a half audible murmur. 

Thank Grod ! thank God \” fell in low accent* 
from the lips of Mr. Ellis. 

Who are you, sir?^’ now spoke up Burton, whom 
surprise had till now kept silent. There was a 
fiery gleam in his eyes. 

“ The uncle of this dear girl, and one who knows 
you well,” was answered, in a stern voice. “ Knows 
you to be unworthy to touch even the hem of her 
garment.” 

A dark scowl lowered upon the face of Burton. 
But Mr. Ellis returned his looks of anger glance for 
glance. Miriam was in terror at this unexpected 
scene, and trembled like an aspen. Instinctively 
she shrank towards her uncle. 

Two or three persons, who sat near, were at- 
tracted by the excitement visible in the manner of 
all three, although they heard nothing that was said. 
Burton saw that they were observed, and, bending 
towards Mr. Ellis, said — 

“ This, sir, is no place for a scene. A hundred 
eyes will soon be upon us.” 

More than one pair of which,” replied Mr. Ellis, 
promptly, will recognise in you a noted gambler, 
who has at least one wife living, if no more.” 

As if stung by a serpent. Burton started to hU 
feet and retired from the eabin. 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


101 


Oh, uncle ! can what you say of this man he 
true asked Miriam, with a blanching face. 

“ Too true, my dear child ! too true ! He is one 
of the worst of men. Thank God that you have 
escaped the snare of the fowler 

“ Yes, thank God ! thank God V’ came trembling 
from the lips of the maiden. 

Mr. Ellis then drew his niece to a part of the 
cabin where they could converse without being 
overheard by other passengers on board of the boat. 
To his inquiry into the reasons for so rash an act, 
Miriam gave her uncle an undisguised account of 
her mother’s distressed condition, and touchingly 
portrayed the anguish of mind which had accom- 
panied her reluctant assent to the offer of Burton. 

And all this great sacrifice was on your mother’s 
account ?” said Mr. Ellis. 

All ! all ! He agreed to settle upon her the sum 
of two thousand dollars a year, if I would become 
his wife. This would have made the family com- 
fortable.” 

‘^And you most wretched. Better, a thousand 
times better, have gone down to your grave, Miriam, 
than become the wife of that man. But for the 
providential circumstance of my seeing you in the 
carriage with him, all would have been lost. Surely, 
you could not have felt for him the least affection.” 

Oh, uncle ! you can never know what a fearful 
trial I have passed through. Affection I It was 


102 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


instead, an intense repugnance. But, for my mo- 
ther's sake, I was prepared to make any sacrifice 
consistent with honour." 

Of all others, my dear child," said Mr. Ellis, 
with much feeling, ^^a sacrifice of this kind is the 
worst. It is full of evil consequences that cannot 
be enumerated, and scarcely imagined. You had 
no affection for this man, and yet, in the sight of 
Heaven, you were going solemnly to vow that you 
would love and cherish him through life !" 

A shudder ran through the frame of Miriam, 
which being perceived by Mr. Ellis, he said — 

^^Well may you shudder, as you stand looking 
down the awful abyss into which you were about 
plunging. You can see no bottom, and you would 
have found none. There is no condition in this life, 
Miriam, so intensely wretched as that of a pure- 
minded, true-hearted woman united to a man whom 
she not only cannot love, but from whom every in- 
stinct of her better nature turns with disgust. And 
this would have been your condition. Ah me! 
in what a fearful evil was this error of your mother, 
in opening a boarding-house, about involving her 
child 1 I begged her not to do so. I tried to show 
her the folly of such a step. But she would not 
liear me. And now she is in great trouble ?" 

Oh yes, uncle. All the money she had when 
she began is spent ; and what she now receives from 
boarders but little more than half pays expenses.'^ 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


103 


I knew it would be so. But my word was not 
regarded. Your mother is no more fitted to keep a 
boarding-house than a child ten years old. It takes 
a woman who has been raised in a difierent school 
who has different habits, and a different chara.> 
ter.^^ 

“ But what can we do, uncle said Miriam. 

What are you willing to do ?” 

I am willing to do any thing that is right for 
me to do/^ 

‘^All employments, Miriam, are honourable so 
far as they are useful, said Mr. Ellis, seriously, 
though false pride tries to make us think differ- 
ently. And, strangely enough, this false pride 
drives too many, in the choice of employments, to 
the hardest, least honourable, and least profitable. 
Hundreds of women resort to keeping boarders as a 
means of supporting their families, when they might 
do it more easily, with less exposure and greater 
certainty, in teaching, if qualified, fine needle-work, 
or even in the keeping of a store for the sale of fancy 
and useful articles. But pursuits of the latter kind 
they reject as too far below them, and, in vainly at- 
tempting to keep up a certain appearance, exhaust 
what little means they have. A breaking up of the 
family, and a separation of its members, follow the 
error in too many cases.’^ 

Miriam listened to this in silence. Her uncie 
paused. 


104 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


What can I do to aid my mother ?” the young 
girl asked. 

Could you not give music lessons V* 

I am too young, I fear, for that. Too little 
skilled in the principles of music, replied Miriam. 

If competent, would you object to teach V* 

Oh, no. Most gladly would I enter upon the 
task, did it promise even a small return. How hap- 
py would it make me if I could lighten, by my own 
labour, the burdens that press so heavily upon our 
mother I” 

And Edith. How does she feel on this subject?’^ 

As I do. Willing for any thing ; ready for any 
change from our present condition.^^ 

Take courage, then, my dear child, take cou- 
rage, said the uncle, in a cheerful voice. There 
is light ahead.^^ 

Oh, how distressed my mother will be when she 
finds I am gone I” sighed Miriam, after a brief si- 
lence, in which her thoughts reverted to the fact of 
her absence from home. When can we get back 
again 

^^Not before ten o^ clock to-night. We must go 
on as far as Bristol, and then return by the evening 
line from New York.’^ 

Another deep sigh heaved the troubled bosom of 
Miriam, as she uttered, in a low voice, speaking to 
herself — 

My poor mother I Her heart will be broken 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


105 


CHAPTER X. 

Meanwhile the hours passed with the mother, 
Bister, and brother in the most agonizing suspense. 
Henry, who had been drawn away into evil company 
by two young men who boarded in the house, was 
neglecting his studies, and pressing on towards 
speedy ruin. To drinking and association with the 
vicious, he now added gaming. Little did his mo- 
ther dream of the perilous ways his feet were tread- 
ing. On this occasion he had come in, as has been 
seen, with a demand for ten dollars. When he left 
home in the morning, it was in company with the 
young man named Barling. Instead of his going to 
the office where he was studying, or his companion 
to his place of business, they went to a certain pub- 
lic house in Chestnut Street, where they fii-st drank 
at the bar. 

Shall we go up into the billiard-room said 
Barling, as they turned from the white marble 
counter at which they had been drinking. 

I don^t care. Have you time to play a game V* 
replied Henry. 

Oh, yes. We^re not very busy at the store to-day.^’ 
So the two young men ascended to the billiard- 
room, and spent a couple of hours there. Both 
played very well, and were pretty equally niatohed. 


106 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


From the billiard-room, they proceeded to another 
part of the house, more retired, and there, at the 
suggestion of Barling, tried a game at cards for a 
small stake. Young Darlington was loser at first, 
but, after a time, regained his losses and made some 
advance on his fellow-player. Hours passed in 
slaying and drinking ; and finally, Darlington, 
whose good fortune did not continue, parted with 
every sixpence. 

<^Lend me a dollar,^^ said he as the last game 
went against him. 

The dollar was lent, and the playing renewed. 

Thus it went on, hour after hour, neither of the 
young men stopping to eat any thing, though both 
drank too frequently. At last, Darlington was ten 
dollars in debt to Barling, who, on being asked for 
another loan, declined any further advances. Stung 
by the refusal, Henry said to him, rising as he 
spoke — 

Do you mean by this that you are afraid I will 
never return the money 

Oh, no,’^ replied Barling. But I don’t want to 
play against you any longer. Your luck is bad.” 

I can beat you,” said Dai-lington. 

You hav’n’t done it to-day certainly,” answered 
Barling. 

“ Will you wait here a quarter of an hour ?” asked 
Henry. 

^‘For what?” 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


107 


I want to pay you off and begin again. I am 
going for some money.^' 

Yes, m wait,” replied the young man. 

** Very well. Til be back in a few minutes.” 

It was for this work and for this purpose that 
Henry Darlington came to his mother just at the 
moment the absence of Miriam and her purpose in 
leaving had been discovered. The effect of the 
painful news on the young man has already been 
described. From the time he became aware of the 
fact that Miriam had gone away with Burton for the 
purpose of becoming his wife, until ten o’clock at 
night, he was in an agony of suspense. As the uncle 
could not be found at the office where he wrote, nor 
at the house where he boarded, it was concluded that 
he had reached the boat before its departure, and 
gone on with the fugitives in the train to New York. 
Nothing was therefore left for the distressed family 
but to await his return. 

How anxiously passed the hours ! At tea time 
Edith only made her appearance. Henry and his 
mother remained in the chamber of the latter. As 
for the young man, he was cast down and distressed 
beyond measure, vexing his spirit with self-accusa- 
tions that were but too well founded. 

“Oh, mother!” said he, while they were alone, 
starting up from where he had been sitting with his 
face buried in his hands — “ oh, mother 1 what evils 
have come through this opening of our house, foi 


108 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


strangers to enter ! Miriam, our sweet, gentle, pure- 
hearted Miriam, has been lured away by one of the 
worst of men; and — the young man checked 
himself a moment or two, and then continued — and 
I have been drawn away from right paths into those 
that lead to sure destruction. Mother, I have been 
in great danger. Until Barling and Mason came 
into our family, I was guiltless of any act that could 
awaken a blush of shame upon my cheek. Oh, that 
I had never met them I” 

Henry ! Henry ! what do you mean by this 
exclaimed Mrs. Darlington, in a voice full of anguish. 

I have been standing on the brink of a preci- 
pice,^^ replied the young man with more calmness. 

But a hand has suddenly drawn me away, and I 
am trembling at the danger I have escaped. Oh, 
mother, will you not give up this mode of life ? We 
liave none of us been happy. I have never felt as 
if I had a home since it began. And you — what a 
slave have you been ! and how unhappy ! Can no- 
thing be done except keeping boarders ? Oh, what 
would I not give for the dear seclusion of a home 
where no stranger’s foot could enter !” 

Some other mode of living must be sought, my 
son,” replied Mrs. Darlington. Added to all the 
evils attendant on the present mode, is that of a 
positive loss instead of a profit. Several hundred 
dollars have been wasted aJi cady, and daily am I 
going in debt.” 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


109 


“ Then, mother, let us change at once,^^ replied 
the young man. ^^It would he better to shrink 
together in a single room than to continue as we are. 
I will seek a clerkship in a store, and earn what I 
can tc help support the family.’^ 

I can think of nothing now but Miriam V* said 
Mrs. Darlington. Oh, if she were back again, safe 
from the toils that have been thrown around her, I 
think I would be the most thankful of mortal^ I 
Oh, my child ! my child I” 

What could Henry say to comfort his mother ? 
Nothing. And he remained silent. 

Long after this, Mrs. Darlington, with Henry and 
Edith, were sitting together in painful suspense. 
No word had been spoken by either for the space of 
nearly an hour. The clock struck ten. 

I would give worlds to see my dear, dear child V* 
murmured Mrs. Darlington. 

Just then a carriage drove up to the door and 
stopped. Henry sprang down stairs; but neither 
Edith nor her mother could move from where they 
sat. As the former opened the street door, Miriam 
stood with her uncle on the threshold. Henry 
looked at her earnestly and tenderly for an instant, 
and then, staggering back, leaned against the wall for 
support. 

Where is your mother asked Mr. Ellis. 

<^In her own room,^^ said Henry, in a voice 
scarcely audible. 


10 


110 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


Miriam sprang up the stairs with the fleetness of 
an antelope, and, in a few moments, was sobbing 
on her mother’s bosom. 

Miriam ! Miriam I” said Mrs. Darlington, in a 
thrilling voice, “ do you return the same as when 
you left V* 

Yes, thank God came from the maiden^s lips. 

“ Thank God ! thank God !” responded the mo- 
ther, wildly. Oh, my child, what a fearful misery 
you have escaped 1’^ 

In a few minutes, the mother and sisters were 
joined by Henry. 

Where is your uncle 1” asked Mrs. Darlington. 

He has gone away ) but says that he will see 
you to-morrow. 

Over the remainder of that evening we will here 
draw a veil. 


CHAPTER XL 

On the next morning, only Mrs. Darlington met 
her boarders at the breakfast-table, when she an- 
nounced to them that she had concluded to close 
her present business, and seek some new mode of 
sustaining her family ; at the same time, desiring 
each one to find another home as early as possible. 

At the close of the third day after this, Mrs. Dar- 
lington sat down to her evening meal with only her 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


Ill 


children gathered at the table. A subdued and 
tranquil spirit pervaded each bosom, even though a 
dark veil was drawn against the future. To a long 
and troubled excitement there had succeeded a calm. 
It was good to be once more alone, and they felt this 

“Through what a scene of trial, disorder, and 
suffering have we passed I” said Edith. “ It seems 
as if I had just awakened from a dream.^^ 

“ And such a dream I” sighed Miriam. 

“Would that it were but a dream said Mrs. 
Darlington. “ But, alas ! the wrecks that are 
around us too surely testify the presence of a de- 
vastating storm. 

“ The storm has passed away, mother,^^ said Edith ; 
“ and we will look for calmer and brighter skies.’^ 

“No bright skies for us, I fear, my children,^^ 
returned the mother, with a deeper tinge of sadness 
in her voice. 

“ They are bright this hour to what they were a 
few days since,’^ said Edith, “ and I am sure they 
•will grow brighter. I feel much encouraged. Where 
the heart is willing, the way is sure to open. Both 
Miriam and I are willing to do all in our power, 
and I am sure we can do much. We have ability 
to teach others; and the exercise of that ability will 
nring a sure reward. I like Uncle Hiram’s sugges- 
tion very much.” 

“ But the humiliation of soliciting scholars,” said 
the mother. 


112 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


To do rig’lit is not humiliating/’ quickly replied 
Edith. 

It is easy to say this, my child ; but can you go 
to Mrs. Lionel, for instance, with whose family we 
were so intimate, and solicit her to send Emma and 
Cordelia to the school you propose to open, without 
a smarting sense of humiliation ? I am sure you 
cannot.” 

Edith communed with her own thoughts for some 
moments, and then answered — 

If I gave way to false pride, mother, this might 
be so ; but I must overcome what is false and evil. 
This is as necessary for my happiness as the exter- 
nal good we seek — nay, far more so. Too many 
who have moved in the circle where we have been 
moving for years, strangely enough connect an idea 
of degradation with the office of teaching children. 
But is there on the earth a higher or more import- 
ant use than instructing the mind and training the 
heart of young immortals ? It has been beautifully 
and truly said, that ‘Earth is the nursery of Hea- 
ven.’ The teacher, then, is a worker in God’s own 
garden. Is it not so, mother ?” 

“You think wisely, my child. God gi’ant that 
your true thoughts may sustain you in the trials to 
come !” replied Mrs. Darlington. 

The door-bell rang as the family were rising from 
the tea-table. The visitor was Mr. Ellis. He had 
come to advise with and assist the distressed mother 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


113 


and her children ; and his words were listened to 
with far more deference than was the case a year 
before. Nine or ten months’ experience in keeping 
a hoarding-house had corrected many of the false 
views of Mrs. Darlington, and she was now pre- 
pared to make an effort for her family in a different 
spirit from that exhibited in the beginning. The 
plan proposed by her brother — a matter-of-fact kind 
of person — was the taking of a house at a more mo- 
derate rent, and opening a school for young children. 
Many objections and doubts were urged; but he 
overruled them all, and obtained, in the end, the 
cordial consent of every member of the family. 
During the argument which preceded the final 
decision of the matter, Mrs. Darlington said — 

“Suppose the girls should not be able to get 
scholars ?” 

“ Let them see to this beforehand.” 

“Many may promise to send, and afterwards 
change their minds.” 

“ Let them,” replied the brother. “ If, at the end 
of the first, second, and third years, you have not 
made your expenses, I will supply the deficiency.” 

“ You !” 

“ Yes. The fact is, sister, if you will be guided 
in some respects by my judgment, I will stand by 
you, and see you safely over every difficulty. Your 
boarding-house experiment I did not approve. I 
saw from the beginning how it would end, and T 
10 * 


114 


TAKING BOAEDERS 


mshed to see the end as quickly as possible. It 
has come, and I am glad of it ; and, still further, 
thankful that the disaster has not been greater. If 
you only had now the five or six hundred dollars 
wasted in a vain experiment during the past year, 
how much the sum might do for you ! But we will 
not sigh over this. As just said, I will stand by 
you in the new experiment, and see that you do not 
fall again into embarrassment.” 

Henry was present at this interview, but remained 
silent during the whole time. Since the day of Mi- 
riam’s departure with Burton, and safe return, a 
great change had taken place in the young man. 
He was like one starting up from sleep on the brink 
of a fearful precipice, and standing appalled at the 
danger he had escaped almost by a miracle. The 
way in which he had begun to walk he saw to be j 
the way to sure destruction, and his heart shrunk 
with shame and trembled with dismay. 

“ Henry,” said the uncle, after an- hour’s conver- 
sation with his sister and Edith, “ I would like to 
talk with you alone.” 

Mrs. Darlington and her daughters left the 
room. 

Henry,” said Mr. Ellis, as soon as the rest had 
withdrawn, you are old enough to do something 
to nelp on. All the burden ought not to come on 
Edith and Miriam.” v 

Only show me what I can do, uncle, and I am 


TAKING BOARDERS 


115 


I ready to put my hands to the work^'^ was Henryks 
I prompt reply. 

It will be years before you can expect an income 
from your profession.^' 

I “I know, I know. That is what discourages 
I me." 

' I can get you the place of clerk in an insurance 
; office, at a salary of five hundred dollars a year. 
! Will you accept it ?" 

‘ Gladly !" The face of the young man bright- 
' ened as if the sun had shone upon it suddenly. 

“ You will have several hours each day, in which 
to continue your law reading, and will get admitted 
to the bar early enough. Keep your mother and 
sisters for two or three years, and then they will be 
in a condition to sustain you until you make a prac- 
tice in your profession." 

But to this the mother and sisters, when it was 
mentioned to them, objected. They were not will- 
ing to have Henry's professional studies interrupted. 
That would be a great wrong to him. 

“Not a great wrong, but a great good," answered 
Mr. Ellis. “And I will make this plain to you. 
Henry, as I learn from yourself, has made some 
I dangerous associations ; and some important change 
is needed to help him break away from them. No 
' sphere of life is so safe for a young man as that 
which surrounds profitable industry pursued for an 
end. Temptation rarely finds its way within thi? 


116 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


sphere. Two or three years devoted to the duties 
of a clerk, with the end of aiding in the support ot 
his mother and sisters, will do more to give a right 
direction to Henry’s character — more to make suc- 
cess in after life certain — than any thing else possible 
now to be done. The office in which I can get him 
the situation I speak of adjoins the one to which I 
am attached, and I will, therefore, have him mostly 
under my own eye. In this new school, the ar- 
dency of his young feelings will be duly chastened, 
and his thoughts turned more into elements of use- 
fulness. In a word, sister, it will give him self- 
dependence, and, in the end, make a man of him.” 

The force of all this, and more by this suggested, 
was not only seen, but felt, by Mrs. Darlington; 
and when she found her son ready to accept the 
offer made to him, she withdrew all opposition. 

Steps preliminary to the contemplated change 
were immediately taken. First of all, Edith waited 
upon a number of their old friends, who had young 
children, and informed them that she was, in con- 
Lection with her sister, about opening a school. 
Some were surprised, some pleased, and some indif- 
ferent at the announcement ; but a goodly number 
expressed pleasure at the opportunity it afforded 
them of placing their younger children under the 
care of teachers in whose ability and character they 
had so much confidence. Thus was the way made 
plain before them 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


117 


CHAPTER XII. 

A FEW weeks later, and the contenr.plafced change 
was made. The family removed into a moderate- 
sized house, at a lower rent, and prepared to test 
the new mode of obtaining a livelihood. A good 
portion of their furniture had been sold, besides 
three gold watches and some valuable jewelry be- 
longing to Mrs. Darlington and her two eldest 
daughters, in order to make up a sum sufficient to 
pay off the debt contracted during the last few 
months of the boarding-house experiment. The real 
loss sustained by the widow in this experiment fell 
little short of a thousand dollars. 

^^How many scholars have you now?'^ asked 
Mrs. Darlington of Edith, two months after the 
school was opened, as they sat at tea one evening, 
each member of the family wearing a cheerful face. 

^‘Twenty,^^ replied Edith. ‘MVe received two 
new ones to-day. Mrs. Wilmot came and entered 
two of her children ; and she said that Mrs. Armond 
was going to send her Florence so soon as her quar- 
ter expired in the school she is now attending.^^ 
How much will you receive from your present 
number of scholars inquired Henry. 

<< I made the estimate to-day,^' returned Edith, 


118 


TAKINli BOARDERS. 


“ and find that the bills will come to something like 
a hundred and twenty-five dollars a quarter.^^ 

Five hundred dollars a year/^ said Henry; and 
my five hundred added to that will make a thousand. 
Can’t we live on a thousand dollars, mother ?” 

“ We may, by the closest economy.” 

‘^Our school will increase,” remarked Edith; 
** and every increase will add to our income. Oh ! 
it looks so much brighter ahead ! and we have so 
much real comfort in the present ! What a scene 
of trial have we passed through !” 

How I ever bore up under it is more than I can 
now tell,” said Mrs. Darlington, with an involuntary 
shudder. ^^And the toil, and suffering, and danger 
through which we have come ! I cannot be suffi- 
ciently thankful that we are safe from the dreadful 
ordeal, and with so few marks of the fire upon 
us.” 

A silence followed this, in which two hearts, at 
least, were humbled, yet thankful, in their self-com- 
munion — the hearts of Henry and Miriam. Through 
what perilous ways had they come ! How near had 
they been to shipwreck ! 

Poor Mrs. Marion !” said Edith, breaking the 
silence, at length. How often I think of her ! And 
the thought brings a feeling of condemnation. Was 
it right for us to thrust her forth as we did ?” 

Can she still be in ?” 

Oh no, no !” spoke up Henry, interrupting his 


TAKING BOARDERS. 119 

mother. *'• I forgot to tell you that I met her and 
her husband on the street to-day.^^ 

Are you certain 
“ Oh yes.^' 

“ Did you speak to them 
No. They saw me, but instantly averted their 
faces. Mrs. Marion looked very pale, as if she had 
been sick.^^ 

Poor woman ! She has had heart-sickness 
enough,^^ said Mrs. Darlington. shall never 

forgive myself for turning her out of the house. If 
I had known where she was going I” 

“But we did not know that, mother,^^ said 
Edith. 

“We knew that she had neither friends nor a 
home,^^ replied the mother. “ Ah me ! when our 
own troubles press heavily upon us, we lose our 
sympathy for others ! 

“ It was not so in this case,^^ remarked Edith. 
“ Deeply did we sympathize with Mrs. Marion. But 
we could not bear the weight without going under 
ourselves.^' 

“ I don’t know, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Darling- 
ton, half to herself. “We might have kept up with 
her a little longer. But I am glad from my heart 
that her husband has come back. If he will be 
kind to his wife, I will forgive all his indebtedness 
io me.” 

A few weeks subsequent U this time, as Miriam 


120 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


sat reading the morning paper, she came upon a 
brief account of the arrest, in New Orleans, of a 
noted gambler,'^ as it said, named Burton, on the 
charge of bigamy. The paper dropped to the floor, 
and Miriam, with clasped hands and eyes instantly 
overflowing with tears, looked upward, and mur- 
mured her thanks to Heaven. 

What an escape I” fell tremblingly from her lips, 
as she arose and went to her room to hold com- 
munion with her own thoughts. 

Three years have passed, and what has been the 
result of the widow’s new experiment? The school 
prospered from the beginning. The spirit with 
which Edith and Miriam went to work made success 
certain. Parents who sent their children were so 
much pleased with the progress they made, that 
they spoke of the new school to their friends, and 
thus gave it a reputation, that, ere a year had elapsed, 
crowded the rooms of the sisters. Mrs. Darlington was 
a woman who had herself received a superior educa- 
tion. Seeing that the number of scholars increased 
rapidly, and made the pressure on her daughters too 
great, she* gave a portion of her time each day to the 
instruction of certain classes, and soon became much 
interested in the work. From that time she asso- 
ciated herself in the school with Edith and Miriam. 

Three years, as we said, have passed, and now the 
proflts on the school are more than sufficient to meet 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


121 


all expenses. Henry has left his clerkship, and is 
a member of the bar. Of course he has little or 
no practice — only a few months having elapsed 
since his admission; but his mother and sisters are 
fully able to sustain him until he could sustain 
himself. 

How much better this is than keeping boarders 
said Edith, as she sat conversing with her mother 
and uncle about the prospects of the school. 

And how much more useful and honourable V* 
remarked Mr. Ellis. ‘^In the one case, you tA 
only the body, but now you are dispensing food to 
the immortal mind. You are moreover independent 
in your own house. When the day^s work is done, 
you come together as one family, and shut out the 
intruding world.’^ 

Yes, it is better, far better,^^ replied Mrs. Dar- 
lington. Ah, that first mistake of mine was a sad 
one I” 

Yet out of it has come good,” said Mr. Ellis. 

That painful experience corrected many false 
views, and gave to all your characters a new and 
higher impulse. It is through disappointment, 
trial, and sufiering, that we grow wise here; and 
true wisdom is worth the highest price we are ever 
called upon to pay for it.” 

Yes, it is so. Through fiery trials are we puri- 
fied. At times, in our suffering, we feel as if every 
good thing in us was about being consumed But 
11 


122 


TAKING BOARDERS. 


this never happens. No good in our characters is 
ever lost in affliction or trouble ; and we come out 
of these states of pain wiser and better than when 
we entered them, and more fitted and more willing 
to act usefully our part in the world. 



PLAIN SEWING; 

OB, 

HOW TO ENCOURAGE THE POOR. 


Do you know of any poor body wbo does plain 
sewing asked Mrs. Lander of a neighbour upon 
whom she called for the particular purpose of making 
this inquiry. I have a good deal of work that I 
want done, and I always like to give my plain sew- 
ing to people that need it.” 

I think I know of a person who will suit you,” 
replied Mrs. Brandon, the lady to whom the appli- 
cation had been made. She is a poor widow 
woman, with four children dependent upon her for 
support. She sews neatly. Yesterday she brought 
me home some little drawers and night-gowns that 
were beautifully made. I am sure she will please 
you, and I know she deserves encouragement.” 

What is her name?” 

Mrs. Walton; and she lives in Larkinas Court.” 

“ Thank you, ma^am. I will send for her this 
morning. You say she is very poor?” 

You may judge of that yourself, Mrs. Lander 

123 


124 


PLAIN SEWING. 


A woman who has four children to support by the 
labour of her own hands cannot be very well off.^' 

^^No — certainly not. Poor creature! I will 
throw all I can in her way, if her work should 
please me.^^ 

I am sure that will be the case, for she sews 
very neatly.^^ 

Mrs. Lander having found out a poor woman who 
could do plain sewing — she was always more ready 
to employ persons in extreme poverty than those 
who were in more easy circumstances — immediately 
sent a summons for her to attend upon her ladyship. 
Mrs. Walton’s appearance, when she came, plainly 
enough told the story of her indigence. 

Mrs. Brandon informs me,” said Mrs. Lander, 
that you do plain sewing very well, and that you 
stand in need of work. I always like to encourage 
the industrious poor.” 

The woman inclined her head, and Mrs. Landei 
went on. 

Do you make shirts ?” 

<^Yes, ma’am, sometimes.” 

‘^Do you consider yourself a good shirt maker?” 

I don’t call myself any thing very extra ; but 
people for whom I work seem generally pleased with 
what I do.” 

I have six shirts cut out for Mr. Lander. How 
soon can you make them ?” 

I couldn’t make them all in less than a couple 


PLAIN SEWING. 


125 


of weeks, as I have other work that must be done 
within that time/^ 

Very well. That will do/^ 

The poor woman took the shirts home, feeling 
grateful to Mrs. Brandon for having recommended 
her, and thankful to get the work. In order to give 
satisfaction to both her new customer, and those for 
whom she already had work in the house, she di- 
vided her time between them, sewing one day for 
Mrs. Lander and the next on the work received be- 
fore hers came in. At the end of a week, three of 
the shirts were ready, and, as she needed very much 
the money she had earned in making them, she 
carried them over to Mrs. Lander on Saturday after- 
noon. 

I have three of the shirts ready, said she, as 
she handed to the lady the bundle she had brought. 

^^Ah! have you?'^ remarked Mrs. Lander, as, 
with a grave face, she opened the bundle and ex- 
amined the garments. This examination was con- 
tinued with great minuteness, and long enough 
almost to have counted every stitch in the garments. 
She found the shirts exceedingly well made; much 
better than she had expected to find them. 

'^When will you have the others ready she 
asked, as she laid them aside. 

I will try and bring them in next Saturday.^' 
Very well.^' 

Then came a deep silence. The poor woman sat 
11 * 


126 


PLAIN SEWINa. 


with the fingers of both hands moving together on. 
easily, and Mrs. Lander looked away out of the win- 
dow and appeared to be intent upon something in 
the street. 

<^Are these made to please you?’^ Mrs. Walton 
ventured to ask. 

^^They^ll do,^^ was the brief answer; and then came 
the same dead silence, and the same interest on the 
part of the lady in something passing in the street. 

Mrs. Walton wanted the money she had earned 
for making the shirts, and Mrs. Lander knew it. 
But Mrs. Lander never liked to pay out money, if she 
could help it ; and as doing so always went against 
the grain, it was her custom to put off such un- 
pleasant work as long as possible. She liked to en- 
courage the very poor, because she knew they gene- 
rally worked cheaper than people who were in easier 
circumstances; but the drawback in their case was, 
that they always wanted money the moment their 
work was done. 

Badly as she stood in need of the money she had 
earned, poor Mrs. Walton felt reluctant to ask for 
it until the whole number of shirts she had en- 
gaged to make were done ; and so, after sitting for a 
little while longer, she got up and went away. It 
happened that she had expended her last sixpence on 
that very morning, and nothing was due to her from 
any one but Mrs. Lander. Two days at least would 
elapse before she would have any other work ready 


PLAIN SEWING. 


127 


to take liomCj and what to do in the mean time she 
did not know. With her the reward of every day^s 
labour was needed when the labour was done ; but 
now she was unpaid for full four days^ work, and 
her debtor was a lady much interested in the welfare 
of the poor, who always gave out her plain sewing 
to those who were in need of encouragement. 

By placing in pawn some few articles of dress, 
and paying a heavy interest upon the little sum ot 
money advanced thereon, the poor widow was able 
to keep hunger from her door until she could finish 
some work she had in hand for a lady more considerate 
than Mrs. Lander. Then she applied herself with 
renewed industry to the three shirts yet to make, 
which she finished at the time she promised to have 
them done. With the money to be received for 
these, she was to pay one dollar and a half to get 
her clothes from the pawnbroker’s shop, buy her 
little boy a pair of shoes, — he had been from school 
a week for want of them, — and get a supply of food 
for the many mouths she had to feed. 

Mrs. Lauder received her with that becoming 
dignity of manner and gravity which certain persona 
always assume when money has to be paid out. She, 
as it behooved her to do, thoroughly examined every 
seam, line of stitching, and hem upon each of the thre^ 
shirts, and then, after slowly laying the garment* 
upon a table sighed, and looked still graver. Poor 
Mrs. Walton felt oppressed ; she hardly knew why. 


125 


PLAIN SEWING. 


“Does the work please you?” she ventured to ask. 
don’t think these are as well made as the 
others,” said Mrs. Lander. 

I thought they were better made,” returned the 
woman. 

“ Oh, no. The stitching on the bosoms, collars, 
and wristbands isn’t nearly so well done.” 

Mrs. Walton knew better than this; but she did 
not feel in any humour to contend for the truth. 
Mrs. Lander took up the shirts again, and made 
another examination. 

What is the price of them ?” she asked. 

“ Seventy-five cents.” 

“ Apiece ?” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

Seventy-five cents apiece V* 

I have never received less than that, and some 
for whom I sew always pay me a dollar.” 

Seventy five cents ! It is an imposition. I know 
plenty of poor women who would have been glad of 
these shirts at half the price — ^yes, or at a third of 
the price either. Seventy-five cents, indeed I Oh, no 
— I will never pay a price like that. I can go 
to any professed shirt-maker in the city, and get 
them made for seventy-five cents or a dollar.” 

I know you can, ma’am,” said Mrs. Walton, 
stung into self-possession by this unexpected lan- 
guage. But why should I receive less if my work 
is as well done?’^ 


PLAIN SE^VlNa. 


129 


** A pretty question, indeed retorted Mrs. Lander^ 
thrown off her guard. A pretty question for you 
to ask of me! Oh, yes! You can get such prices if 
you can, but I never pay them to people like you. 
When I pay seventy-five cents or a dollar apiece for 
shirts, I go to regular shirt-makers. But this is 
what we generally get for trying to encourage the 
poor. Mrs. Brandon said that you were in needy 
circumstances, and that it would be a charity to give 
you work. But this is the way it generally turns out.’^ 

What are you willing to pay 1 ” asked the poor 
woman, choking down her feelings. 

I have had shirts as well made as these for forty 
cents many and many a time. There is a poor 
woman down in Southwark, who sews beautifully, 
who would have caught at the job. She works foi 
the shops, and does not get over twenty-five cents 
for fine shirts. But as IMrs. Brandon said you were 
suffering for work, I thought I would throw some- 
thing in your way. Forty cents is an abundance; 
but I had made up my mind, under the circum- 
stances, to make it fifty, and that is all I will give. 
So here is your money — three dollars.” 

And Mrs. Lander took out her purse, and counted 
out six half dollars upon the table. Only for a few 
moments did the poor woman hesitate. Bread she 
must have for her children; and if her clothes were 
not taken out of pawn on that day, they would be 
lost. Slowly did she take up the money while words 


130 


PLAIN SEWING. 


©f stinging rebuke were on her tongue. But she 
forced herself to keep silence; and even departed, 
hearing the wrong that had been laid upon her with- 
out uttering a word, 

^^Bid you get my shoes as you promised, mother?^' 
eagerly inquired her little boy, as she came in, on 
returning from the house of Mrs. Lander. 

^‘No, dear,” replied the heart-full mother, in a 
subdued voice. I didn’t get as much money as 
I expected.” 

“When will you buy them, mother?” asked the 
child as tears filled his eyes. “I can’t go to school 
in this way.” And he looked down at his bare feet. 

“I know you can’t, Harry; and I will try and 
get them for you in a few days.” 

The child said no more, but shrunk away with 
his little heart so full of disappointment, that he 
could not keep the tears from gushing over his face. 
The mother’s heart was quite as full. Little Harry 
sat down in a corner to weep in silence, and Mrs. 
Walton took her sewing into her hands; but the 
tears so blinded her eyes, that she could not see 
where to direct the needle. Before she had re- 
covered herself, there was a knock at the door, which 
was opened immediately afterwards by a lady, who 
came into the room where the poor widow sat with 
her little fiunily around her. 

More than an hour had passed since the un- 
pleasant interview with the poor widow, and Mre. 


PLAIN SEWING. 


131 


Lander had not yet recovered her equanimity of 
mind nor lost the feelings of indignation which the 
attempt to impose upon her by an exorbitant 
charge had occasioned, when she was favoured with 
a visit from Mrs. Brandon, who said familiaidy, and 
with a smile, as she entered — 

Ah, how do you do, Mrs. Lander? I have just 
corrected a mistake you made a little while ago.” 

‘‘Indeed! what is that?’^ asked Mrs. Lander, 
looking a little surprised. 

“You only gave poor Mrs. Walton fifty cents apiece 
for the half dozen of shirts she made for you, when 
the lowest price is seventy-five cents. I always pay 
a dollar for Mr. Brandon^s. The difference is a very 
important one to her — no less than a dollar and a 
half. I found her in much trouble about it, and 
her little boy crying with disappointment at not 
getting a pair of shoes his mother had promised him 
as soon as she got the money for the shirts. He 
has been from school for want of shoes for more than 
a week. So I took out my purse and gave Mrs. 
Walton the dollar and a half to make up the sum 
she had earned, and told her I would see you about 
it. I acted right, did I not? Of course, it was a 
mistake on your part ?” 

Mrs. Lander was never more completely out-gene- 
ralled in her life. The lady who had corrected her 
error was one in whose good opinion she had every 
reason for desiring to stand high. She could grinc 


132 


PTJV.IN SEWING. 


the face of the poor without pity or shame, but foi 
the world she would not be thought mean by Mrs. 
Brandon. 

am very much obliged to you, indeed,'^ she 
said with a bland smile. It was altogether a mis- 
take on my part, and I blame the woman exceedingly 
for not having mentioned it at the time. Heaven 
knows I am the last person in the world to grind 
the faces of the poor ! Yes, the very last person. Here 
is the money you paid for me, and I must repeat 
my thanks for your prompt correction of the error. 
But I cannot help feeling vexed at the woman.” 

We must make many allowances for the poor, 
Mrs. Lander. They often bear a great deal of wrong 
without a word of complaint. Some people take 
advantage of their need, and, because they are poor, 
make them work for the merest pittance in the 
world. I know some persons, and they well off in 
the world, who always employ the poorest class 
of people, and this under the pretence of favouring 
them, but, in reality, that they may get their work 
done at a cheaper rate than it can be made by people 
who expect to derive from their labour a comfortable 
support.” 

Mrs. Lander was stung to the quick by these 
words; but she dared not show the least sign of 
feeling. 

Surely no one professing to be a Christian can 
do so/’ said she. 


PLAIN SEWING. 


13S 


Yes, people professing to be Christians do these 
things,” was replied; ^^but of course their profes- 
sion needs a better practice to prove it of any worth.” 

When her visitor retired, after having expressed 
her opinion on the subject under consideration still 
more unequivocally, Mrs. Lander did not feel very 
comfortable, nor was her good opinion of herself 
quite so firm as it had been earlier in the day. But 
she took good care, in the future, not to give any 
more work to Mrs. Walton, and was exceedingly 
particular afterwards, in employing poor people, to 
know whether they sewed for Mrs. Brandon. There 
are a good many people in the world who encourage 
the poor on Mrs. Lander’s principle. 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


‘‘What are you doing here, miss?^^ 

The young girl thus addressed was sitting by a 
centre-table, upon which stood a lamp, in a hand- 
somely furnished drawing-room. She laid aside the 
book she was reading, and, without making any reply, 
rose up quickly and retired. Two or three persons, 
members of the family, were present. All observed 
the effect of Mrs. Freeman’s words, yet no one had 
heard what was said; nor would they have been 
aware that more than a request for some service had 
been made, but for the lady’s remark as the girl left 
the room. 

“ I might as well begin at once, and let Jessie 
know her place.” 

“What did you say to her, ma?” asked a young 
lady who sat swinging herself in a large rocking- 
chair. 

“ I simply asked her what she was doing here.” 

“ What did she answer?” 

“ Nothing. The way in which I put the ques- 
tion fully explained my meaning. I am sorry that 
there should have arisen » necessity for hurting her 
134 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


135 


feelings; but if the girl doesn’t know her place, she 
must be told where it is.” 

1 don’t see that she was doing any great harm,” 
remarked an old gentleman who sat in front of the 
grate. 

^‘She was not in her place, brother,” said Mrs. 
Freeman, with an air of dignity. We employ hex 
as a teacher in the family, not as a companion. Her 
own good sense should have taught her this.” 

You wouldn’t have us make an equal of Jessie 
Hampton, would you, uncle Edward ?” inquired the 
young lady who sat in the rocking-chair. 

You cannot make her your equal, Fanny, in 
point of worldly blessings, for, in this matter. Pro- 
vidence has dealt more hardly with her than with 
you. As to companionship, I do not see that she 
is less worthy now than she was a year ago.” 

^‘You talk strangely, Edward,” said Mrs. Free- 
man, in a tone of dissent. 

In what way, sister?” 

There has been a very great change in a year. 
Jessie’s family no longer moves in our circle.” 

True; but is Jessie any the less worthy to sit in 
your parlour than she was then ?” 

“ I think so, and that must decide the matter,’^ 
returned Mrs. Freeman, evincing some temper. 

The old gentleman said no more; but Fanny re 
marked — I was not in favour of taking Jessie, for 
I knew how it would be ; but Mrs. Carlton reccm- 


136 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


mended her so highly, and said so much in hei 
favour, that no room was left for a refusal. As for 
Jessie herself, I have no particular objection to her; 
but the fact of her having once moved in the circle 
we are in is against her; for it leaves room for her 
to step beyond her place, as she has already done, 
and puts upon us the unpleasant necessity of remind- 
ing her of her error.^^ 

It don’t seem to me,” remarked Mr. Freeman, 
who had till now said nothing, that Miss Hamp- 
ton was doing any thing worthy of reproof. She has 
been well raised, we know; is an educated, refined; 
and intelligent girl, and, therefore, has nothing about 
her to create repugnance or to make her presence 
disagreeable. It would be better, perhaps, if we 
looked more to what persons are, than to things 
merely external.” 

It is all very well to talk in that way,” said 
Mrs. Freeman. But Miss Hampton is governess 
in our family, and it is only right that she should 
hold to us that relation and keep her place. What 
she has been, or what she is, beyond the fact of her 
present position here, is nothing to us.’^ 

Mr. Freeman knew from experience, that no par- 
ticular good would grow out of a prolonged argument 
on this subject, and so said nothing further, although 
he could not force from his mind the image of the 
young girl as she rose up hastily and left the room, 
nor help thinking how sad a change it would be for 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


13 : 


one of his own children, if reduced suddenly to her 
condition. 

A good deal more was said by Mrs. Freeman, who 
did not feel very comfortable, although she fully 
justified herself for what she had done. 

The young girl, who had been reminded so harshly 
of the error into which she had fallen, went quickly 
up into her cold chamber, and there, with a burning 
cheek, sat down to think as calmly as her disturbed 
feelings would permit. The weakness of tears sha 
did not indulge; self-respect, rather than pride, sus- 
tained her. Had she acted from the first impulse, 
she would have left the house immediately, never 
again to re-enter it; but reason soon told her that, 
however strong her impulses might be, duties and 
considerations far beyond mere feeling must come 
in to restrain them. 

“ Whatever I have been," she said to herself, as 
rihe sat and reflected, I am now simply a governess, 
and must steadily bear that in mind. In this house 
I am to receive no more consideration than a mere 
stranger. Have I a right to complain of this? Have 
I cause to be offended at Mrs. Freeman for remind- 
ing me of the fact? Her reproof was unkindly 
given ; but false pride has in it no gentleness, no 
regard for another’s feelings. Ah me ! this is one 
more lesson of the many I have to learn ; but let 
me bear up with a brave heart. There is One who 
knows my path, and who will see that nothing therein 
12 * 


138 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


need cause my feet to stumble. From this momeni 
I will think of all here as strangers. I will faith- 
fully do what I have engaged to do, and expect there- 
for only the compensation agreed upon when I came. 
Have I a right to expect more 

The bright colour faded gradually from the flushed 
cheeks of Jessie Hampton, and with a calm, yet 
pensive face, she arose and went down into the room 
which had been set apart for her use when giving 
instruction to the children. It was warmed and 
lighted, and had in it a small library. Here she 
sat alone, reading and thinking, for a couple of 
hours, and then retired to her chamber for the 
night. 

As was intimated in the conversation that arose 
upon her leaving the drawing-room, Jessie Hamp- 
ton’s circumstances had suffered, in a very short 
period, a great change. A year before she was the 
equal and companion of Fanny Freeman, and more 
beloved and respected by those who knew her than 
Fanny was or ever could be ; but unexpected reverses 
came. The relative who had been to her as a father 
for many years was suddenly deprived of all hi ^ 
worldly goods, and reduced so low as to be in want 
of the comforts of life. So soon as Jessie saw this, 
she saw plainly her duty. 

I cannot burden my uncle,” said she resolutely 
to herself. He has enough, and more than enough, 
to bear up under, without the addition of my 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


139 


weight.” Thoughtfully she looked around her; but 
still in doubt what to do, she called upon a lady 
named Mrs. Carlton, who was among the few whcjse 
manner towards her had not changed with altered 
fortune, and frankly opened to her what was in her 
mind. 

What does your uncle say?” inquired Mrs. Carl- 
ton. Does he approve the step ?” 

knows nothing of my purpose,” returned 

Jessie. 

Then had you not better consult him ?” 

He will not hear of it, I am certain ; but, for all 
that, I am resolved to do as I propose. He has lost 
his property, and is now in great trouble. He is, 
in fact, struggling hard to keep his head above 
water : my weight might sink him. But, even if 
there were no danger of this, so long as I am able 
to sustain myself, I will not cling to him while he is 
tossed on the waves of adversity.” 

cannot but highly approve your decision,” 
said Mrs. Carlton, her heart warm with admiration 
for the right-minded girl. ^‘The fact that your 
uncle has been compelled to give up his elegant 
house, and retire with you to a boarding-house, 
shows the extremity to which he has been reduced. 
I understand that his fine business is entirely broken 
up, and that, burdened with debts, he has commenced 
the world again, a few hundred dollars all his capita^ 
in trade, resolved, if health and a sound mind be 


140 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


continued to him, to rise above all his present diffi* 
culties.^* 

‘^And shall I,” replied Jessie, ^^sit an idle wit- 
ness of the honourable struggle, content to burden 
him with my support? No! Were I of such a 
spirit, I would be unworthy the relation I bear 
him. Much rather would I aid him, were it in my 
power, by any sacrifice.” 

“ If I understand you aright,” said Mrs. Carlton, 
after thinking for a few moments, you would prefer 
a situation as governess in a private family.” 

Yes ; that would suit me best.” 

How would you like to take charge of Mrs. 
Freeman^s younger children? She mentioned tc 
me, only yesterday, her wish to obtain a suitable 
instructor for them, and said she was willing to pay 
a liberal salary to a person who gave entire satisfac- 
tion.” 

Jessicas face became thoughtful. 

“ Mrs. Freeman is not the most agreeable person 
to be found, I know, Jessie,” said her friend; ^^but 
the step you propose involves sacrifices from the 
beginning.” 

It does, I know ; and I must not forget this. 
Had I a choice, I certainly should not select the 
family of Mrs. Freeman as the one in which to 
begin the new life I am about entering upon. She 
and Fanny are among the few who have ceased to 
notice me, except with great coldness, since my 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


141 


UDcle's misfortunes. But I u'lll not think of this. 
If they will take me, I will go even into their 
house, and assume the humble duties of a governess.^' 

Mrs. Carlton immediately called upon Mrs. Free- 
man, and mentioned Jessie. Some objection was 
made on the score of her being an old acquaintance, 
who would expect more notice than one in her po- 
sition was entitled to receive. This, however, was 
overruled by Mrs. Caidton, and, after an interview 
with Jessie, an engagement was entered into for a 
year, at a salary of four hundred dollars. 

When Jessie mentioned the subject to her uncle. 
Mr. Hartman, he became a good deal excited, and 
said that she should do no such thing. But Jessie 
remained firm, and her uncle was at last compelled, 
though with great reluctance, to consent to what she 
proposed, regarding it only as a temporary measure. 

The first day's experience of Jessie under the 
roof of Mrs. Freeman is known to the reader. It 
was a painful experience, but she bore it in the right 
spirit. After that, she was careful to confine her- 
self to the part of the house assigned her as a ser- 
vant and inferior, and never ventured upon the least 
familiarity with any one. Her duty to the children 
who were committed to her charge was faithfully 
performed, and she received, regularly, her wages, 
according to contract, and there the relation between 
her and this family ceased. Day after day, week 
after week, and month after month, did Jessie 


142 


JESSIE HABIPTON 


Hampton, uncheered by an approving smile or 
friendly word, discharge her duties. But she had 
within, to sustain her, a consciousness that she was 
doing right, and a firm trust in an all-wise and mer- 
ciful Providence. 

Mrs. Carlton remained^her steady friend, and 
Jessie spent an evening at her house almost every 
week, and frequently met there many of her old 
acquaintances. Of her treatment in the house of 
Mrs. Freeman she never spoke, and when questioned 
on the subject avoided giving a direct answer. 

Mr. Hartman’s struggle proved to be a hard one. 
Harassed by claims that he could not pay off at 
once, his credit almost entirely gone, and the capital 
upon which he was doing business limited to a few 
hundred dollars, he found it almost impossible to 
make any headway. In a year from the time Jessie 
had relieved him from the burden of her support, 
so far from being encouraged by the result of his 
efforts, he felt like abandoning all as hopeless. 
There are always those who are ready to give small 
credits to a man whom they believe to be honest, 
even though once unfortunate in business ; but for 
such favours Mr. Hartman could not have kept uf 
thus far. Now the difficulty was to pay the few 
notes given as they matured. 

A note of five hundred dollars was to fall due on 
the next day, and Mr. Hartman found himself with 
but a hundred dollars to meet it. The firm from 


JESSIE HAMPTON, 


1.43 


which he had bought the goods for which the note 
was given had trusted him when others refused credit 
to the amount of a single dollar, and had it in their 
power to forward his interests very greatly if he was 
punctual in his payments. It was the first bill of 
goods they had sold him, and Hartman could not go 
to them for assistance in lifting the note, for that 
would effectually cut off all hope of further credit. 
He could not borrow, for there was no one to lend 
him money. There was a time when he could 
have borrowed thousands on his word ; but now 
he knew that it would be folly to ask for even hun- 
dreds. 

In a state of deep discouragement, he left his 
store in the evening and went home. After tea, 
while sitting alone, Jessie, who came to see him 
often, tapped at his door. 

Are you not well she asked, with much con- 
cern, as soon as the smile with which he greeted 
her faded from his face, and she saw its drooping 
expression. 

Yes, dear,^^ he replied, trying to arouse himself 
and appear cheerful ; but the effort was in vain. 

Indeed, uncle, you are not well,” remarked 
Jessie, breaking in upon a longer period of silent 
abstraction into which Mr. Hartman had fallen, after 
in vain trying to converse cheerfully with his niece. 

I am well enough in body, Jessie ; but my mind 
is a little anxious just now,” he replied. 


144 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


“ Isn^t your business coming out as well as you 
expected?’^ inquired the affectionate girl. 

am sorry to say that it is not/^ returned Mr. 
Hartman. In fact, 1 see but little hope of suc- 
ceeding. I have no capital, and the little credit I 
possess is likely to be destroyed through my inability 
to sustain it. I certainly did anticipate a better 
reward for my efforts, and am the more disappointed 
afthis result. To think that, for the want of three 
or four hundred dollars, the struggle of a whole 
year must prove in vain ! As yet, even that small 
sum I cannot command. 

The face of Jessie flushed instantly, as her uncle 
uttered the last two sentences. 

^^And will so small an amount as three or four 
hundred dollars save you from what you fear she 
asked, in a trembling voice. 

Yes, even so small an amountasthat. But the sum 
might as well be thousands. I cannot command it.^^ 
You can, uncle replied Jessie, with a glow 
of exultation on her cheek, and a spirit of joy in 
her voice. “ I have the money. Oh I it is the 
happiest hour of my life I” 

And sinking forward, she laid her now weeping 
face upon the breast of her uncle. Her tears were 
the out-gushing waters of gladness. 

You have the money, child said Mr. Hart- 
man, after the lapse of a few moments. Where 
did you get it V' 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


145 


I have had no need to spend my salary 
^ Your salary I Have you saved it all 
* Every dollar. I had clothing sufficient, and 
there was no other want to take it from me. Dear 
uncle, how happy it makes me to think that I have 
it in my power to aid you ! Would that the sum 
was tens of thousands 

Mr. Hartman, as soon as the first surprise was 
over, said, with evident emotion — 

Jessie, I cannot express how much this incident 
has affected me. But, deeply grateful to you as I 
feel for such an evidence of your love, I must push 
hack the hfind that would force this aid upon me. 
I will not be unjust to you. I will not take your 
hard earnings to run the risk of losing them.” 

A shadow passed over the face of Jessie, and her 
voice was touched with something like grief as she 
replied — 

How can you speak to me thus, uncle ? How 
can you push back my hand when, in love, it seeks 
to smooth the pillow upon which your troubled head 
is resting ? Would you deny me a higher gratification 
than I have ever known ? No — no — you cannot !” 

Mr. Hartman was bewildered. He felt as if it 
would be a kind of sacrilege to take the money of 
his niece, yet how could he positively refuse to do 
so ? Apart from the necessity of his circumstances, 
there was the cruelty of doing violence to the gene- 
rous love that had so freely tendered relief. In 
18 


146 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


the end, all objections had to yield, and Mr. Hart- 
man was saved from a second disaster, which would 
have entirely prostrated him, by the money that 
Jessie had earned and saved. 

A short time after the occurrence of this circum- 
stance, the Freemans gave a large party. Mrs. 
Carlton, who was present, said to Mrs. Freeman, an 
hour after the company had assembled — 

Where is Miss Hampton ? Fve been looking 
for her all the evening. Isn’t she well ?” 

^^What Miss Hampton do you mean?’^ asked 
Mrs. Freeman, drawing herself up with an air cold 
and dignified. 

Miss Jessie Hampton,” replied Mrs. Carlton. 

Sure enough !” said a young man, who was 
sitting by, and who had been attentive to Fanny 
Freeman ; where is Miss Hampton ? I haven’t 
seen her for a long time. What can have become 
of her ? Is she dead, or is she married ?” 

Her uncle, I suppose you know, failed in busi- 
ness, and has become poor,” replied Mrs. Carlton. 

True. I was perfectly aware of that, but didn’t 
reflect that poverty was a social crime. And is it 
possible that so lovely a girl as Jessie Hampton has 
been excluded from the circle she so graced with 
her presence, because of this change in her uncle’s 
circumstances ?” 

It is true to a very great extent, Mr. Edgar,” 
returned Mrs. Carlton, though I am glad to saj 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


147 


tbal there are a few who can appreciate the real 
gold of her character, and who love her as truly 
and esteem her as highly as ever they did.^^ 

A worthy few, and if I were only so fortunate 
as to fall in company with her, I would be of the 
number. Is she here to-night V* 

The young man looked at Mrs. Freeman, and be- 
came aware, from the expression of her face, that 
the subject was disagreeable to her. With easy 
politeness he changed the theme of conversation 
but as soon as opportunity offered, sought out Mrs. 
Carlton, and asked a question or two more about 
Jessie. 

What has become of Miss Hampton ? I should 
really like to know,^^ he said. 

Mrs. Carlton could only reply direct, and she 
answered. 

She is living in this family in the capacity of 
governess.^^ 

Indeed ! I have been visiting here, off and on, 
for a twelvemonth, but have neither seen her nor 
heard her name mentioned. Are you sure?’^ 

Oh yes. I procured her the situation over a year 
ago, and see her almost every week.^^ 

This being the case, and it also being plain that 
her worth is not appreciated here, our remarks a 
little while ago could not have been very pleasant 
to the ears of Mrs. Freeman.^' 

I presume not,’^ was returned. 


148 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


The young man became thoughtful, and, in a lit- 
tle while, withdrew from the crowded rooms and 
left the house. He was the son of a wealthy mer- 
chant, and had recently come into his father’s busi- 
ness as a partner. It was to the firm of Edgar & 
Son that the note of Mr. Hartman, which Jessie 
had aided him to lift, had been due. 

On the day succeeding the party at Mrs. Free- 
man’s, Mr. Hartman came in to purchase some 
goods, and, after selecting them, asked if he could 
have the usual credit. 

“ Certainly,” replied old Mr. Edgar; and to 
double the amount of the bill.” 

Hartman thanked the merchant, and retired. 

“ You know the five hundred dollar note that he 
paid last week ?” said Mr. Edgar, speaking to his 
son, and alluding to Hartman, who had just left. 

I do.” 

Well, I heard something about that note this 
morning that really touched my feelings. Hart- 
man spoke of the circumstances to a friend, and 
that friend —betraying, I think, the confidence re- 
posed in him — related it to me, not knowing that we 
were the parties to which the note had been paid. 
On that note he came near failing again.” 

Indeed ! And yet you have just sold him freely V* 

I have. But such are my feelings that I would 
risk five thousand dollars to keep him up. I know 
him to be a man of strict honesty.” 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


149 


There is no doubt of that/^ replied the son. 

“You remember his niece, I suppose said old 
Mr. Edgar. 

“ Oh, very well.” 

“When Mr. Hartman’s circumstances became 
reduced, she, of her own free choice, relieved him of 
the burden of her support, and assumed the arduous 
and toilsome duties of a governess in one of our 
wealthy families, where she has ever since been. 
On the evening before the note of which I spoke 
was due, she called to see her uncle, and found him 
in trouble. For some time he concealed the cause, 
but so earnest was she in her affectionate entreaties 
to know why he was unhappy, that he told her the 
reason. He was again embarrassed in his business, 
and, for want of a few hundred dollars, which one, 
circumstanced as he was, could not borrow, was in 
danger of being again broken up. To his astonish- 
ment, Jessie announced the fact that she had the 
sum he wanted, saved from her salary as governess. 
He at first refused to take it, but she would listen 
to no denial.” 

“ Noble girl !” exclaimed the young man. 

“She must be one in a thousand,” said Mr. 
Edgar. 

“ She is one in ten thousand !” replied the son, 
enthusiastically. “ And yet worth like hers is passed 
over for the tinsel of wealth. Ho you know in whose 
family she is governess ?” 


150 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


<< I do not.” 

can tell you. She is in the family of Mr 
Freeman.” 

^^Ah!” 

^^Yes. You know they gave a party last night?” 

«ldo.” 

“ Miss Hampton was not present.” 

“ As much as might have been inferred.” 

And yet there was no young lady in the room 
her equal in all that goes to make up the character 
of a lovely woman.” 

Well, my son,” replied the old gentleman, ^^all 
I have to say is, that I look upon this young lady 
as possessing excellencies of character far outweigh- 
ing all the endowments of wealth. Money ! It 
may take to itself wings in a day ; but virtue like 
hers is as abiding as eternity. If your heart is not 
otherwise interested, and you feel so inclined, win 
her if you can. Another like her may never cross 
your path. With such a woman as your wife, you 
need not tremble at the word adversity.” 

The young man did not reply. What his thoughts 
were, his actions subsequently attested. 

After the party, to the distant coldness with 
w^hich Mrs. Freeman had treated Jessie since she 
came into her house, were added certain signs of 
dislike, quickly perceived by the maiden. In ad- 
dressing her, Mrs. Freeman exhibited, at times, a 
superciliousness that was particularly offensive. But 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


151 


Jessie checked the indignant feelings that arose in 
her bosom, and, in conscious rectitude of character, 
went on faithfully discharging her duties. Since 
the timely aid she had been able to bring her uncle, 
she had a new motive for effort And went through 
her daily task with a more cheerful spirit. 

One day, about six months after the occurrence 
of the party which has been mentioned, Jessie, a 
little to the surprise of Mrs. Freeman, gave that lady 
notice that, at a certain time not far off, she would 
terminate her engagement with her. The onlj^ 
reason she gave was, that the necessity which took 
her from home no longer remained. At the time 
mentioned, Jessie left, although Mrs. Freeman, 
urged by other members of the family, who could 
better appreciate the young lady’s worth, offered a 
considerable increase of salary as an inducement tc 
remain. 

What do you think exclaimed Fanny, about 
three weeks subsequently, throwing open the parlour 
door, where the family had assembled just before 
tea. Jessie Hampton’s married !” 

^^What!” ejaculated Mrs. Freeman. Married?” 

^‘Oh yes, sure enough,” said Mi. Freeman, 
heard of it a little while before I left my counting- 
room. And, more surprising still, she is married 
to young Edgar.” 

Oh, no I” responded Mrs. Freeman, incredu- 
lously. It’s some mistake. Never ! It cannot be.’* 


152 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


Oh, but it is a fact, mother/^ said Fanny, with 
ill-concealed chagrin. Lizzy Martin was her brides- 
maid. They were married at Mrs. Carlton’s this 
morning, and the whole bridal party has gone off 
to Saratoga.” 

He’s got a good wife,” remarked the brother 
of Mrs. Freeman, in his quiet way. ‘‘I always liked 
that young man, and like him better than ever now. 
I knew he was a fellow of good sense ; but he has 
showed himself to possess more of that sterling 
material than I thought.” 

Mr. Freeman also gave his opinion, and in doing 
so, expressed himself pretty freely in regard to the 
treatment Jessie had received, while in the house. 
As for his wife, when the truth assumed an un- 
doubted form, she sunk into mortified silence, and 
Fanny felt even worse than her mother, and for 
reasons that lay nearer her heart. 

In a little while the bride took her old place in 
society, and many who, in her seclusion, passed her 
coldly, or all unnoticed, met her now with smiles 
and with warm congratulations. Of all the changes 
that followed as a consequence of her marriage, there 
was none that filled her with so much delight as the 
improved prospects of her uncle, Mr. Hartman. 
Her husband became his fast friend, and sustained 
him through every difficulty. One home held them 
both. How purely and brightly the stream of 
Jessie’s happiness flowed on, need not be told 


JESSIE HAMPTON. 


153 


Virtue and integrity of character had met their just 
reward. In adversity she was not cast down, and 
when prosperity again smiled she was not unduly 
elated. In either relation to society, she was a dis- 
penser of blessings to those she loved. 

It is a fact worthy of notice, that those who looked 
down upon Jessie, and passed her unnoticed while 
she was only a governess, now referred to the noble, 
self-sacrificing spirit that prompted her to act as she 
bad done, and spoke of her conduct with admiration. 


THE NEW YEAR’S GIFT 


*^JuST four weeks off/’ said a little boy, strikiug 
his hands together, and papa will be home !” 

‘‘Yes, four weeks more, and we shall see dear 
father. It will be the happiest New Year’s day we 
ever had ; won’t it, mother ?” said the little boy’s 
sister, a bright smile playing over her face. 

I hope so,” replied the mother. Father has 
been away so long, his coming home would make 
any day in the year a happy one.” 

I wonder what he will bring me for a New Years 
present ?” said the boy. 

I know what I’ll get,” said the little sister. 

«What?” 

“ A hundred kisses.” 

Oh ! I don’t care much for kisses.” 

But I do ; and I’m sure of getting them.” 

I wonder what mamma will get ?” 

“ I know !” replied the sister, with an arch smile, 

«What ?” 

Just what I will.” And the little girl looked 
at her mother, and smiled still more archly. 

“ A hundred kisses, you mean ?” 

“We’ll see.” 


THE NEW YEARNS GIFT. 


165 


The mother’s hand rested from her work, and 
she looked at her children with a calm, yet happy 
face. Their words had caused her to realize, in ima- 
gination, with more than usual distinctness, the 
fact of her husband’s return, which he had written 
would be on the first day of the coming new year. 
He had been away for many months, and home had 
hardly seemed like home during his absence. 

“We mustn’t think too much about it,” said the 
mother, “ or we will get so impatient for dear father’s 
return as to make ourselves unhappy. I am sure 
we will all love him better than ever we did, when 
he does come home !” 

“I am sure I will,” returned the little girl. 
“ Oh ! I think I never loved him so well in my life 
as I have since he has been away.” 

Thus talked the mother and her children of the 
return of one whose presence was so dear to them all. 

This brief conversation took place in a farm-house. 
In the room sat, near the fire, a man whose appear- 
ance was any thing but pleasant to the eyes. He 
was a labourer, who had been hired, some months 
previously, by the farmer. He did not seem to hear 
what was said, yet he was listening with reluctant 
attention. The mother and her children continued 
Btill to talk of what was uppermost in their minds — 
the absent one, and his expected return — until the 
man became restless, and at last got up and went 
out. 


156 


THE NEW year’s GIFT. 


don’t wonder Mr. Foster went out of the 
room,” said the boy, as the person alluded to shut 
the door. 

Why, Edward ?” asked his sister. 

Can’t you think, Maggy ?” 

‘^No. What made him go out?” 

‘^Because we said we were so glad papa was 
coming home on New Year’s day. I’m sure he 
must have thought of his home. They won’t be so 
glad to see him on New Year’s day, as we are to 
see our dear, good father.” 

^^Why do you say that, my son?” asked the 
mother. 

I’m sure they can’t be so glad,” said Edward. 
<^I know I wouldn’t be so glad to see my father, if 
he was like Mr. Foster. Doesn’t he spend nearly 
all the money he gets in liquor ? I’ve heard you 
say that his poor wife and children hardly have 
enough to eat or to wear, although he gets very good 
wages, and could make them comfortable if he would. 
No, I’m sure they can’t love him as we love our 
father, nor be as glad to see him come home as we 
will be to see our father. And he knows it, and 
that made him go out of the room. He didn’t like 
to hear us talking.” 

The boy was correct in his conclusions. The man 
Foster, of whom he spoke, did feel troubled. He 
had children and a wife, and he was absent from 
them, and had been absent for many months. On 


THE NEW year’s GIFT. 


IS". 

New Year’s day he was to go home; hut many 
painful feelings mingled with the thought of seeing 
his long-neglected and much-ahused family. Since 
he had been away, he bad expended more than half 
his earnings upon himself, and yet his appearance 
was worse than when he went from home, for, in 
exchange for his money, he had received only poison. 

It was evening. Without, the air was cold. The 
sky was clear, and the moon and stars shone brightly. 
Foster walked a short distance from the house, trying 
to drive from his mind the images that had been 
conjured up by the words of the children and their 
mother; but he could not. His own abused wife and 
neglected little ones were before him, in their com- 
fortless home, poorly clad, and pale and thin from 
want of healthy and sufl&cient food. Did they think 
of him, and talk with so much delight of his return ? 
Alas ! no. He brought no sunshine to their cheer- 
less abode. 

Wretch I wretch !” he said to himself, striking 
his hand hard against his bosom. A curse to 
them! — a curse to myself!” 

For an hour the unhappy man stayed out in the 
chilly air; but he did not feel the cold. Then he 
re-entered the house, but did not go into the room 
where the happy mother sat with her children, but 
to the lonely attic where he slept. 

Twenty miles away lived the wife and three children 
of Foster. The oldest boy was eleven years of age, 
14 


158 


THE NEW year’s GIFT. 


and the youngest child, a little girl, just five. 
Three sm'cill mounds, in a burying-ground near by 
where the humble dwelling stood, marked the place 
where as many more slept — more blessed than the 
living. The mother of these children was a pale- 
faced woman, with a bent form and an aspect of 
suffering. She had been long acquainted with sor- 
row and trouble. Like hundreds and thousands of 
others in our land, she had left, years before, the 
pleasant home of her girlhood, to be the loving com- 
panion of one on whose solemnly pledged faith she 
relied with the most unwavering confidence. And, 
for a time, the trust was not in vain. The firsi 
golden period of her married life was a happy time 
indeed ! None could have been more thoughtful of 
her comfort, nor more tender of her feelings, than 
was her husband. But, alas ! it was with him as 
with hundreds and thousands of others. Not once 
did it cross his mind that there was danger to him 
in the pleasant glass that was daily taken. The 
bare suggestion he would have repelled as an insult 
On the day of his marriage, Henry Foster re- 
ceived from the father of his wife the title-deeds 
of a snug little place containing thirty acres, which 
was well stocked for a small farmer. He had, 
himself, laid by a few hundred dollars. Thus he 
had a fair start in the world, and a most comfortable 
assurance of happiness and prosperity. For several 
years every thing went on pleasantly. The farm 


THE NEW year’s GIFT. 


159 


was a very garden spot, and had increased from 
thirty to sixty acres by the purchase of contiguous 
lands. Then a change became apparent. Foster 
took more interest than formerly in what was going 
on in the village near by. He attended the various 
political meetings held at the ^‘Travellers’ Rest,” 
and was a prominent man on training and election 
days After a while, his wife began to look on these 
days with a troubled feeling, for they generally sent 
him home in a sad plight; and it took nearly a 
week for him to get settled down again to his work. 

Thus the declension began, and its progress was 
too sadly apparent to the eyes of Mrs. Foster, even 
before others, less interested than herself, observed 
it. At the end of ten years from the happy wed- 
ding day, the farm, now more like a wilderness than 
a beautiful garden, was seized and sdd for debt. 
There were no friends to step in and go Fosters 
security, and thus save his property from sacrifice. 
The father of his wife was dead, and his own friends, 
even if they had not lost confidence in him, were 
unable to render any assistance. 

The rented farm upon which Foster went with his 
family, after being sold out, was cultivated with no 
more industry than his own had been of late years. 
The man had lost all ambition, and was yielding 
himself a slave to the all-degrading appetite for 
drink. At first, his wife opposed a gentle remon- 
strance; but he became impatient and angry at a 


160 


THE NEW YEARNS GIFT. 


word, and she shrank back into herself, choosing 
rather to bear silently the ills of poverty and degra- 
dation, which she saw were rapidly approaching, than 
to run the risk of having unkindness, from one so 
tenderly loved, added thereto. 

Affliction came with trouble. Death took from 
the mother^s arms, in a single year, three children. 
The loss of one was accompanied by a most painful, 
yet deeply warning circumstance. The father came 
home from the village one evening, after having 
taken a larger quantity of liquor than usual. While 
the mother was preparing supper, he took the babe 
that lay fretting in the cradle, and hushed its fret- 
tings in his arms. While holding it, overcome with 
what he had been drinking, he fell asleep, and the 
infant rolled upon the floor, striking its head first. 
It awoke and screamed for a minute or two, and 
then sank into a heavy slumber, and did not awake 
until the next morning. Then it was so sick, that a 
physician had to be called. In a week it died of 
brain fever, occasioned, the doctor said, by the fall. 

For a whole month not a drop of liquor passed 
the lips of the rebuked and penitent father. Even 
in that short time the desert places of home began 
to put forth leaves, and to give promise of sweet 
buds and blossoms; and the grieving mother felt 
that out of this great sorrow was to come forth joy. 
Alas ! that even a hope so full of sadness should 
be doomed to disappointment. In a moment of 


THE NEW YEARNS GIFT. 


161 


temptation her husband fell, and fell into a lowei 
deep. Then, with more rapid steps the downward 
road was traversed. Five more years of sorrow 
sufficed to do the work of suffering and degradation. 
There was another seizure for debt, and the remnant 
of stock, with nearly all their furniture, was taken 
and sold. The rented farm had to be given up; 
with this, the hope of gaining even sufficient food 
for her little ones died in the wretched mother’s 
mind. 

From a farmer on his own account, Foster now 
became a mere farm labourer ; with wages sufficient, 
however, to have made things comfortable at home 
under the management of his frugal, industrious 
wife, if all he earned had been brought home to her. 
But at least one third, and finally one half, and some- 
times more, went to swell the gain of the tavern- 
keeper. Had it not been that a cow and a few 
chickens were left to them at the last seizure of 
their things, pinching hunger would have entered 
the comfortless home where the mother hid herself 
with her children. 

At last Foster became so good for nothing, that 
he could not obtain employment as a farm hand any- 
where in the neighbourhood, and was obliged to go 
off to a distance to get work. This, to him, was not 
felt to be a very great trial, for it removed him from 
the sight of his half-fed, half-clothed children, and 
dejected, suffering wife; and he could, therefor* 
14 * 


162 


THE NEW YEARNS GIFT. 


spend with more freedom, and fewer touches of com- 
punction, the greater portion of his earnings in grati- 
fying the inordinate cravings of his vitiated appetite. 

Thus, in general, stood affairs at the opening of 
our story. Let us now take a nearer and more par- 
ticular view. Let us approach, and enter the cheer- 
less abode of the man who, to feed an evil and de- 
basing appetite, could heartlessly turn away from 
his faithful wife and dependent little ones, and leave 
them to the keenest suffering. 

New Year’s day, to which the farmer’s wife and 
children were looking forward with so much delight, 
was but little more than a week off, and Mrs. Foster 
expected her husband home also. But with what 
different feelings did she anticipate his arrival ! He 
never brought a glad welcome with his presence; 
although his wife, when he was absent, always 
looked for and desired his return. He had been 
away over three months ; and was earning twenty 
dollars a month. But, he had only sent home 
eighteen dollars during the whole time. This, we 
factory in the village and worked from morning 
•ifitil night, thus earning about a dollar and a half 
a week, and that the mother took in sewing, spin- 
ning, washing and ironing, and whatever she could 
get to do, they must have wanted even enough to eat. 


• THE NEW year's GIFT. 


163 


It was but six days to New Ivear’s. Mrs. Foster 
had been washing nearly the whole day, — work that 
she was really not able to do, and which always so 
tired her out, that in the night following she could 
not sleep from excessive fatigue, — she had been 
washing nearly all day, and now, after cleaning up 
the floor, and putting the confused room into a little 
order, she sat down to finish some work promised 
by the next morning. It was nearly dark, and she 
was standing, with her sewing, close up to the win- 
dow, in order to see more distinctly in the fading 
light, when there came a loud knock aft the door. 
One of the children opened it, and a man, whose 
face she knew too well, came in. He was the owner 
»f the poor tenement in which they lived. 

Have you heard from Foster since I was here 
jast ?” said the man, with an unpleasant abruptness 
of manner. 

No sir, I have not,” replied Mrs. Foster, in a 
low, timid voice, for she felt afraid of the man. 

When do you expect him home ?” 

He will be here at New Year's.” 

Humph I Do you know whether he will bring 
any money ?” 

‘^I am sure I cannot tell; but I hope so.” 

He'd better — the man spoke in a menacing 
V)ne — ^^for I don't intend waiting any longer for 
my rent.” 

No reply was made to this. 


164 


THE NEW year’s GIFT. 


Will you tell your husband, when he retums, 
my good woman, what I have just said V* 

I will,’^ was meekly replied. 

Very well. If he doesn’t come up to the notch 
then, I shall take my course. It is simple and easy ; 
BO you had better be warned in time.” And the 
man walked out as abruptly as he came in. Mrs. 
Foster looked after him from the window, where she 
had continued standing, and saw him stop and look 
attentively at their cow, that stood waiting to be 
milked, at the door. A faintness came over her 
heart, for she understood now, better than before, 
the meaning of his threats. 

An hour after dark George came home with his 
hand in a sling. He went up, quickly, to where 
his mother was sitting by a table at work, and 
dropping down in a chair, hid his face in her 
lap, without speakiD.g, but bursting into tears as he 
did so. 

“Oh George! what is the matter?” exclaimed 
the mother in great alarm. “What ails your 
hand ?” 

“ It got mashed in the wheel,” replied the boy, 
sobbing. 

“Badly?” asked the mother, turning pale, and 
feeling sick and faint. 

“It’s hurt a good deal; but the doctor tied it 
up, and says it will get well again ; but I wonH be 
able to go to work again in a good while.” 


THE NEW year’s GIFT. 


165 


And the lad, from sobbing, wept bitterly. The 
mother leaned her bead down upon her boy, and 
wept with him. 

‘‘I don’t mind the hurt so much,” said George, after 
be bad recovered himself; ^‘but I won’t be able to 
do any thing at the mill until it gets well.” 

Can’t I go to work in his place, mamma ?” spoke 
up, quickly, little Emma, just in her tenth year. 

Mrs. Foster kissed the earnest face of her child 
and said — 

*^No, dear; you are not old enough.” 

'^I’m nine, and most as big as George. Yes, 
mamma. I’m big enough. Won’t you go and ask 
them to let me come and work in brother’s place till 
he gets well ?” 

The mother, her heart almost bursting with many 
conflicting emotions, drew the child’s head down 
upon her bosom, and held it tightly against her 
heart. 

The time of severer trial was evidently drawing 
near. Almost the last resource was cut off, in the 
injury her boy had sustained. She had not looked 
at his band, nor did she comprehend the extent of 
damage it had received. It was enough, and more 
than enough, that it was badly hurt — so badly, that 
a physician had been required to dress it. How the 
mother’s heart did ache, as she thought of the pain 
her poor boy had suffered, and might yet be doomed 
to suffer I And yet, amid this pain, came intruding 


166 


THE NEW year’s GIFT. 


tlie thought, which she tried to repel as a selfish 
thought, that he could work no more, and earn no 
more, for, perhaps, a long, long time. 

Yes, the period of severer ti ial had evidently come. 
She did not permit herself even to hope that her 
husband when he returned would' bring with him 
enough money to pay the rent. She knew, too well, 
that he would not ; and she also knew, alas ! too well 
that the man to whose tender mercies they would then 
be exposed had no bowels of compassion. 

Wet with many tears was the pillow upon which 
the mother’s head reposed that night. Shje was too 
weary in body and sorrowful in mind to sleep. 

On the next morning a deep snow lay upon the 
ground. To some a sight of the earth’s pure white 
covering was pleasant, and they could look upon 
the flakes still falling gracefully through the air 
with a feeling of exhilaration. But they had food 
and fuel in store — they had warm clothing — they 
had comfortable homes. There was no fear of cold 
and hunger with them — no dread of being sent forth, 
shelterless, in the chilling winter. It was different 
with Mrs. Foster when she looked from her window 
at daylight. 

George had been restless, and moaned a good deal 
through the night; but now he slept soundly, and 
there was a bright flush upon his cheeks. With 
what a feeling of tenderness and yearning pity did 
his mother bend over him, and gaze into his fail 


THE NEW year’s GIFT. 


167 


face, fairer now than it had ever looked to her. But 
she could not linger long over her sleeping boy. 
With the daylight, unrefreshed as she was, came her 
never ending, still beginning” toil; and now she 
felt that she must toil harder and longer, and with- 
out hope. 

Though little Emma’s offer to go and work in the 
mill in her brother’s place had passed from the 
thought of Mrs. Foster, yet the child had been too 
much in earnest to forget it herself. Young as she 
^ was, the very pressure of circumstances by which 
- she was surrounded had made her comprehend 
i clearly the necessity that existed for George to go 
I and work daily in the mill. She knew that he 
earned a dollar and a half weekly; and she under- 
stood very well, that without this income her mother 
would be greatly distressed. 

After she had eaten her breakfast of bread and 
milk, the child went up stairs and got an old pair 
j of stockings, which she drew on over her shoes, that 
I had long been so worn as to afford but little pro- 
I Section to her feet; and then taking from a closet an 
j old shawl, drew it over her head. Thus attired, she 
! waited at the head of the stairs until her mother 
was out of the way, and then went quickly down. 

I She managed to leave the house without being seen 
by any one, and took her way, through tlie deep 
and untracked snow, towards the mill, which was 
about a quarter of a mile off. The air was bitter 


168 


THE NEW year's GIFT. 


cold, and the storm still continued; but the child 
plodded on, chilled to the very heart, as she soon j 
was, and, at length, almost frozen, reached the mill, i 
The owner had observed her approach from the 
window, and wondering who she was, or what brought 
BO small a child to the mill through the cold and 
storm, went down to meet her. 

Bless me ! little one !" he said, lifting her from 
the ground and placing her within the door. Who 
are you, and what do you want 

“Fm George’s sister, and Fve come to work in 
his place till he gets well," replied the child, as she 
stood, with shivering body and chattering teeth, 
looking up earnestly into tl>e man’s face. 

George Foster’s sister ?" 

Yes, sir. His hand’g hurt so he can't work, 
and Fve come to work in his place." 

You have ! Who sent you, pray ?" 

“ Nobody sent me." 

Does your mother know about your coming ?" 

No, sir." 

Why do you want to work in George’s place ?" 

If I do, then you’ll send mother a dollar and a 
half every week, won’t you ?" 

The owner of the mill was a kind-hearted man, 
and this little incident touched his feelings. 

You are not big enough to work in the mill, my 
child," said he, kindly. 

‘‘I’m nine years old," replied Emma, quickly i 1 


THE NEW year’s GIFT* 


169 


Oh yes ! I can work as well as anybody. Do let 
me come in George’s place ! Won’t you ?” 

Emma had not been gone very long before she 
was missed. Her mother had become quite alarmed 
about her, when she heard sleigh-bells at the door, 
and, looking out, saw the owner of the mill and her 
child. Wondering what this could mean, she went 
out to meet them. 

This little runaway of yours,” said the man, in 
a pleasant voice, came trudging over to the mill 
this morning, through the snow, and wanted to take 
the place of George, who was so badly hurt yester 
day, in order that you might get, as she said, a dol 
lar and a half every week.” 

Why, Emma I” exclaimed her mother, as she 
lifted her from the sleigh. How could you do so ? 
You are not old enough to work in your brother’s 
place.” 

Besides,” said the man, there is no need of 
your doing so ; for George shall have his dollar and 
a half, the same as ever, until he is able to go to 
work again. So then, my little one, set your heart 
at rest.” 

Emma understood this very well, and bounded 
away into the house to take the good news to her 
brother, who was as much rejoiced as herself. After 
inquiring about George, and repeating to Mrs. 
Foster what he had said to Emma, he told hei 

that he would pay the doctor for attending the lad 
15 


170 


THE NEW year’s GIFT. 


BO that tho accident needn’t prove a burden U 
her. 

The heart of Mrs. Foster lifted itself, thankfully, 
as she went hack into the house. 

Don’t scold her, mother,” said George. She 
thought she was doing right.” 

This appeal, so earnestly made, quite broke down 
the feelings of Mrs. Foster, and she went quickly 
into another room, and closing the door after her, 
sat down by the bedside, and, burying her face 
in a pillow, suffered her tears to flow freely. 
Scold the child ! She felt more like taking her 
in her arms, and hugging her passionately to her 
bosom. 

To know that the small income her boy’s labour 
had produced was not to be cut off, proved a great 
relief to the mind of Mrs. Foster j but, in a little 
while, her thoughts went back to the landlord’s 
threat and the real distress and hopelessness of 
their situation. To the period of her husband’s 
return she looked with no feeling of hope ; but, 
rather, with a painful certainty, that his appearance 
would be the signal for the landlord to put his 
threats into execution. 

Sadly the days went by, each one bringing nearer 
the time towards which the unhappy woman now 
.ooked forward with a feeling of dread. That the 
landlord would keep his promise, she did not, for an 
instant, doubt. Without their cow, how could she, 


THH NEW YEARNS GIFT. 


171 


with all her exertions, feed her children ? No won 
der that her heart was troubled. 

At last the day before the opening year came. 

Papa will be home to-morrow,’^ said Emma. 1 
wonder what he will bring me for a New Year’s gift.” 

I wish he would bring me a book,” said George. 

'^Fd like a pair of new shoes,” remarked the 
little girl, more soberly, looking down at her feet, 
upon which were tied, with coarse strings, what 
were called shoes, but hardly retained their sem- 
blance. And mamma wants shoes, too,” added the 
child. Oh ! I wish papa would bring her, for a 
New Year’s gift, a nice new pair of shoes.” 

The mother heard her children talking, and sighed 
to think how vain were all their expectations. 

I wish we had a turkey for father’s New Year’s 
dinner,” said Emma. 

And some mince pies !” spoke up little Hetty, 
the youngest, clapping her hands. Why don’t 
we have mince pies, mamma ?” she said, taking hold 
of her mother’s apron and looking up at her. 

Papa likes mince pies, I know ; and so do I. 
Don’t you like mince pies, George ?” 

George, who was old enough to understand better 
than the rest of them the true cause of the priva- 
tions they suffered, saw that Hetty’s questions had 
brought tears to his mother’s eyes, and, with a 
thoughtfulness beyond his years, sought to turn tbf 
conversation into another channel. 


172 


THE NEW tear’s GIFT. 


But the words of the children had brought to tht 
mind of Mrs. Foster a memory of other times,— 
of the many happy New Years she had enjoyed 
with her husband, their board crowned with the 
blessings of the year. Her dim eyes turned from 
her neglected little ones, and fell upon a small orna- 
ment that stood upon the mantle. It was the New 
Year’s gift of her husband in better days. It re- 
minded her too strongly of the contrast between 
that time and the gloomy present. She went quickly 
from the room, to weep unheard and alone. 

New Year’s morning at length broke clear and 
cold. Mrs. Foster was up betimes. It was no 
holiday to her. Early in the day her husband was 
to come home, and though she could not help look- 
ing and wishing for him to come, yet the thought 
of him produced a pressure in her bosom. She felt 
that his presence would only bring for her heart a 
deeper shadow. 

The children had grown eager for him to come. 
The younger ones talked of the presents he would 
bring them, while George thought of a book, yet 
dared hardly hope to receive one. At last, Emma 
descried her father far down the road, and announced, 
ir. a loud voice, his coming. The heart of the 
mother throbbed quicker at the word. She went 
to the window, where the children crowded, feeling 
troubled, and yet with something of the old glad- 
ness about her heart. She strained her eyes to see 


THE NEW year’s GIFT. 


173 


him, ftbd yet dreaded to fix them upon him too in- 
tently, kst more should be seen than she wished to 
see. He came nearer and nearer, and she was yet 
at the window, her heart beating audibly. Could 
her eyes deceive her, or was it indeed so ? His 
form was erect and his step firm, and, though his 
clothes were the same, they did not look so 
untidy. 

Thank God!” she ejaculated silently, yet fer- 
vently, as he came nearer still — he is sober.” 

Yes, he was sober. 

Henry !” she could not say another word, as she 
took his hand when he came in. Her eyes were full 
of tears. He pressed her thin, small, labour-worn 
hand tightly, and then turned and sat down. He, 
too, was moved as well as she. But the children 
gathered around him, and seemed gladder to see him 
than when he was last home. There was a reason 
for this. Seeing the hand of George in a sling, he 
inquired the cause, and when told of the accident, 
appeared deeply grieved, and said he should not go 
back to the mill any more. The heart of his wife 
fluttered. Was there a meaning deeper than a mo- 
mentary impulse ? At last little Hetty, who had 
climbed upon his knee, said, Where’s my New 
Year’s gift, papa ?” 

The father put his hand in his pocket and pulled 
out a small picture-book, and gave it to the child, 
who was wild with joy in a moment. He had a 
15 * 


174 


THE NEW YEARNS GIFT. 


larger book for Emma, and Kobinson Crusoe foi 
George. 

And what for mother asked Emma, looking 
earnestly at her father. Haven’t you brought deal 
mother a New Year’s gift, too ?” 

Oh, yes,” replied the father, I’ve got some- 
thing for her also.” His voice was a little unstead) 
as he said this. Then he put his hand into his 
pocket again, and, after keeping it there for a mo- 
ment or two, drew out a large folded piece of papei 
that looked like a title-deed, and handed it to his 
wife, who took it with a trembling hand. She 
opened it, read a few words, and, bursting into tears, 
turned and went quickly from the room. Hers 
were tears of joy — ^unutterable joy. 

Was it then a title-deed of property that her hus- 
band had given her, filling her heart with gladness 
at the thought of relief from toil, and privation, and 
sufiering ? No, it was better than that, and brought 
a fuller and more perfect joy. It was a New Year\ 
gift such as she had never dared hope to receive — 
the dearest gift in the power of her husband to be- 
stow. Already blotted with tears, it was tightly 
pressed to her heaving bosom. 

What was it ? What could it be but the blessed 
temperance pledge, signed, in a firm hand, with her 
husband’s name. 

That was indeed a happy New Year’s day to the 
wife and mother, who, when the mo.niug dawned, 


THE NEW year’s GIFT. 


175 


telt that she was entering upon the darkest days of 
her troubled existence. But a brighter day un- 
known was breaking. It broke, and no gloomy 
clouds have since arisen to obscure its smiling 
skies 


AUNT MAEY’S PRESERVING KETTLE. 


DECLARE, if these preserves haven’t been 
working !” exclaimed !Siint Mary, as she opened a 
jar of choice quinces, and perceived that, since they 
were sealed up and carefully stored for the winter, 
fermentation had taken place. 

And the peaches, too, as I live !” she added on 
examining another jar. Run, Hannah, and bring 
me my preserving kettle. I shall have to do them 
all over.” 

Mrs. Tompkins borrowed it, you know, yester- 
day,” Hannah replied. 

So she did, I declare ! Well, you must run 
over to Mrs. Tompkins, Hannah, and tell her that 
I want my preserving kettle.” 

Hannah departed, and Aunt Mary proceeded to 
examine jar after jar of her rich store of preserves, 
and, much to her disappointment, found that all of 
her quinces and peaches, comprising some eight or 
ten jars, had commenced working. These she took 
from their dark corners in the closet, and, placing 
them on the large table in the kitchen, awaited pa- 
tiently Hannah’s return. ‘ In about fifteen minutos 

her help entered. 

176 


AUNT Mary’s preserving kettle. 177 


** But where is the kettle inquired Aunt Mary, 
eagerly. 

Why, ma’am, Mrs. Tompkins says as how she 
ain’t quite done with it yet; she’s finished her 
pears ; but then she has her mamlet to do.” 

Aunt Mary Pierce was a good woman, and her 
heart was full of kind feelings towards others. But 
she had her foibles as well as her neighbours, and 
among these was an almost passionate admiration 
of her beautiful bell-metal preserving kettle, which 
was always kept as bright as a gold eagle. Nothing 
tried Aunt Mary more than to have to lend her 
preserving kettle. But as in reading her Bible she 
found it written — Of him that would horrow of 
thee turn thou not away — she dared not refuse any 
of the applications that were made for it, and in 
preserving time these were enough to try the pa- 
tience of even a better woman than Aunt Mary. 
The fact was, that Aunt Mary’s preserving kettle 
was the best in the village, and there were at least 
a dozen or two of her neighbours, who did not 
think their sweetmeats good for any thing if not 
prepared in this favourite kettle. 

Ain’t it too bad !” ejaculated Aunt Mary, lift- 
ing her hands and then letting them fall quickly 
‘‘Ain’t it too bad! But it is always so I Just 
when I want my own things, somebody’s got them. 
Go right back, Hannah, and tell Mrs. Tompkins 
that my preserves are all a working, and jhat 7 


178 AUNT MARY'S PRESERVING KETTLE. 


must have my kettle at once, or they will bo 
ruined.'' 

Hannah started off again, and Aunt Mary stood, 
far less patiently than before, beside the table on 
which she had placed her jars^ and awaited her re- 
turn. 

Well,” she asked eagerly, as Hannah entered 
after the lapse of some ten minutes, where is the 
kettle 

Mrs. Tompkins says, ma’am, that she is very 
sorry that your preserves have commenced working, 
but that it won’t hurt them if they are not done 
over for three or four days. She says that her 
mamlet is all ready to put on, and as soon as that is 
done you shall have the kettle in welcome.” 

Poor Aunt Mary was, for a few minutes, mute 
with astonishment. On recovering herself, she did 
not storm and fret. Indeed, she was never guilty 
of these little housewife effervescences, usually taking 
every trouble with a degree of Christian meekness 
that it would have been well for many in the village, 
even the minister’s wife, to have imitated. 

^^Well, Hannah,” she said, heaving a sigh, ^^wo 
shall have to wait, I suppose, until Mrs. Tompkins 
has finished her marmalade. But I am afraid all 
these preserves will be spoiled. Unless done over 
immediately on their beginning to work, they get a 
flavour that is not pleasant. But we must wait 
patiently.” 


AUNT MARY^S PRESERVING KETTLE. 17 & 


It’s a downright shame, ma’am, so it is !” said 
Hannah, and I wonder you take it so quietly. If 
it was my kettle, and I wanted it, I reckon I’d have 
it too quick. Only just say the word, ma’am, and ] 
will get it for you if I have to take it off of the 
fire.” 

Oh no, no, no, not for the world, Hannah !” 
replied Aunt Mary, to her indignant help. “ We 
will try and wait for her, though it is a little hard 
to have one’s things always a-going, and never to be 
able to put your hands on them when you want 
them.” 

All the next day Aunt Mary suffered the jars of 
fermenting preserves to remain on the kitchen table. 
Every time her eye rested upon them, unkind 
thoughts would arise in her mind against her neigh- 
bour, Mrs. Tompkins, but she used her best efforts 
to suppress-them. About the middle of the next 
day, as the preserving kettle did not make its ap- 
pearance, Hannah was again despatched, with direc- 
tions to urge upon Mrs. Tompkins the pressing ne- 
cessity there was for its being returned. In due 
time Hannah made her appearance, but without the 
kettle. 

Well ?” inquired Aunt Mary, in a tone of dis- 
appointment. 

Mrs. Tompkins says, ma’am,” replied Hannah, 
that you needn’t be in such a fever about your 
old preserving kettle, and that it is not at all neigh 


180 AUNT mart’s preserving kettle. 


hourly to be sending for a thing before it is done 
with. She says she won’t be through with her mam- 
let before day after to-morrow, and that you can’t 
hive the kettle before then.” 

Well, it is a downright shame !” said Aunt 
Mary, with a warmth of manner unusual to her. 

^‘And so I told her,” responded Hannah. 

You did ! And what did Mrs. Tompkins say ?” 

Oh, she fired right up, and said she didn’t want 
any of my imperdence.” 

But you oughtn’t to have said so, Hannah.” 

How could I help it, ma’am, when my blood 
was boiling over? It is a shame j that’s the truth.” 

Aunt Mary , did not reply, but she thought all that 
Hannah had said to Mrs. Tompkins, and a good deal 
more. Indeed, her forbearance was sorely tried. 
Never since she could recollect, had she felt so un- 
kindly towards any one as she now did towards her 
neighbour and fellow church member. Often did 
she try to put away these unkind and troublesome 
thoughts; but the effort was vain. Mrs. Tompkins 
had trespassed so far upon her rights, and then put 
such a face upon it, that she could not help feeling 
incensed at her conduct. 

After a while day after to-morrow” came, which 
was on Saturday. 

I must have that kettle to-day, Hannah,” said 
she, and Hannah started off to Mrs. Tompkins. 

You needn’t come after that kettle to-day,” spoke 


AUNT Mary’s preserving kettle. 18 \ 


up Mrs. Tompkins, as Hannah entered, my mar* 
malade is not all done yet.’' 

But we must have it to-day, Mrs. Tompkins. 
Mrs. Pierce says as how I mustn’t come home with- 
out it. The preserves are nearly ruined now, and 
all because you didn’t send home the kittle when 
we first wanted it.” 

I want none of your impudence,” said Mrs. 
Tompkins, going off at once into a passion, for she 
was rather a high-tempered woman, ^‘and so just 
shut up at once. If Mrs. Pierce is so fussy about 
her old worn-out kettle, she can have it and make 
the most out of it. A pretty neighbour, indeed I 
Here, Sally,” calling to her help, empty that ket- 
tle and give it to Hannah.” 

Where shall I empty it ?” asked Sally. 

“ Empty it into the slop barrel, for what I care; 
the whole kettle of marmalade will be spoiled any 
how. A pretty neighbour, indeed !” 

Sally, who understood her mistress’s mood, knew 
very well that her orders were not to be literally 
obeyed. So she took the preserving kettle from the 
fire, and poured its contents into a large pan, instead 
of the slop barrel. 

Here’s the kettle,” said she, bringing it in and 
handing it to Hannah. It was black and dirty on 
the outside, and within all besmeared with the mar- 
malade, for Sally cared not to take the trouble of 
cleaning it. 


182 AUNT Mary’s preserving kettle. 


There, take the kettle !” said Mrs. Tompkins in 
an excited tone, and tell Mrs. Pierce that it is the 
last time I’ll borrow any thing from her.” 

Hannah took the kettle, and started for home at 
full speed. 

So you’ve got it at last,” said Aunt Mary, when 
Hannah entered ; and a pretty looking thing it is 1 
Really it is too bad to have a thing sent home in 
that predicament.” 

But ain’t she mad though !” remarked Hannah, 
with something of exultation in her tones. 

What in the world can she be mad about ?” 
asked Aunt Mary in surprise. 

Mad because I would have the kittle. Why, 
there she had her mamlet on the fire, boiling away, 
and said you couldn’t have the kittle. But I told her 
you must have it ; that your preserves were nearly 
all spoiled, just because you couldn’t get your own 
kittle. Oh, but didn’t she bile over then ! And so 
she told Sally to pour the mamlet into the slop 
barrel, as it would all be spoiled any how, by your 
unneighbourly treatment to her.” 

Poor Aunt Mary was dreadfully grieved at this. 
She loved the good opinion of her neighbours, and 
it always gave her pleasure to oblige them ; but, in 
this case, she had been tried beyond endurance. She 
had little heart now to touch her preserves, and so 
went off to her chambei and sat down, overcome by 
painful feelings. 


AUNT Mary’s preserving kettle. 188 


In the mean time, Hannah went to work, and, by 
dint of half an hour’s hard scouring, got the kettle 
to look something like itself. She then went up 
and told Aunt Mary that every thing was now ready 
for doing the preserves over again. 

I reckon we’ll not boil them over to-day, Han- 
nah,” she replied. It’s Saturday, and you’ve got 
a good deal of cleaning to do, and I don’t feel much 
like touching them. The preserves won’t get much 
worse by Monday.” 

Hannah, who understood her mistress’s feelings, 
and sympathized with her, because she loved her, 
did not urge the matter, but at once withdrew and 
left Aunt Mary to her own unpleasant reflections. 

It so happened that the next day was the Commu- 
nion Sabbath ; and this fact had at once occurred to 
Aunt Mary when Hannah repeated the words of 
Mrs. Tompkins, and stated that she was very angry. 
Mrs. Tompkins was a member and communicant of 
the same church with her. After sitting thought- 
fully in her chamber for some time. Aunt Mary took 
up the communion service and commenced reading 
it. When she came to the words, ^^Ye who do 
truly and earnestly repent of your sins, and are in 
love and charity with your neighbours” &c. &c., she 
paused and sat thoughtful and troubled for some time. 

Am I in love and charity with my neighbours ?” 
she at length asked herself, aloud, drawing a heav] 


184 AUNT Mary’s preserving kettle. 


^‘No, I am not,” was the mental response. Mrs 
Tompkins is angry with’ me, and I am sure I do not 
feel right towards her.” 

During all that afternoon. Aunt Mary remained 
in her chamber, in deep communion with herself. 
For the last twenty years she had never, on a single 
occasion, stayed away from the Lord’s table; but now 
she felt that she dared not go forward, for she was 
not in love and charity with her neighbours, and the 
injunction was explicit. Night came, and at the 
usual hour she retired, but not to sleep the sweet 
refreshing sleep that usually locked up her senses. 
Her thoughts were so active and troubled, that she 
could not sink away into a quiet slumber until long 
after midnight. In the morning she felt no better, 
and, as church time approached, her heart beat more 
heavily in her bosom. Finally, the nine o’clock bell 
rang, and every stroke seemed like a knell. At last 
the hour for assembling came, and Aunt Mary, cast 
down in heart, repaired to the meeting-house. The 
pew of Mrs. Tompkins was just in front of Aunt 
Mary’s, but that lady did not turn around and smile 
and give her hand as usual when she entered. All 
this Aunt Mary felt. 

In due time the services commenced, and regu- 
larly progressed to their conclusion, the minister 
preaching a very close sermon. The solemn and 
impressive communion service followed, and then 
the members went up to partake of the sacred em« 


AUNT Mary’s preserving kettle. 185 


blems. But Aunt Mary did not go up as usual 
She could not, for she was not in love and charity 
with her neighbours. This was noticed by many, 
and particularly by the minister, who lingered after 
all had successively approached the table and re- 
tired, repeating his invitation, while his eye was 
fixed upon Aunt Mary. 

“What can be the matter?” asked Mrs. Peabody 
of Mrs. Beebe, the moment she got outside of the 
church door. “ Aunt Mary didn’t go up.” 

“ Indeed ! It can’t be possible ?” 

“ Yes, but it is. For I sat just behind her all 
the time. She seemed very uneasy, and I thought 
troubled. She hardly looked up during the sermon, 
and hurried away, without speaking to any one, as 
soon as the congregation was dismissed at the close of 
the communion service. What can be the matter?” 

It is strange, indeed I” responded Mrs. Green, 
who came up while Mrs. Peabody was speaking. 
“ I took notice myself that she did not go up.” 

“ I wonder if she has done any thing wrong ?” 

“ Oh, no !” 

“ Then what can be the matter ?” 

“ I would give any thing to know !” 

“ Something is wrong, that is certain,” remarked 
one of the little crowd, for the group of two or three 
had swelled to as many dozens. 

Many were the suggestions made in reference to 
Aunt Mary’s conduct ; and, before Sabbath evening^ 
16 * 


186 AUNT MARY^S PRESERVING KETTLE. 


there was not one of the members that did not know 
and wonder at her strange omission. 

After Aunt Mary returned from church, she felt 
even worse than before. A sacred privilege had been 
deliberately omitted, and all because she had let 
unkindness spring up between herself and her 
neighbour. 

And yet how ?ould I help it ?” she argued with 
herself. I was tired out of all patience. I only 
sent for my own, and because I did so, Mrs. Tomp- 
kins became offended. I am sure I was not to 
blame.^^ 

“But then,^^ said another voice within her, “you 
could have gone over on Saturday and made up the 
matter with her, and then there would have been 
nothing in the way. One duty neglected only 
opened the way for another.” 

There was something in this that could not be 
gainsaid, and poor Aunt Mary felt as deeply trou- 
bled as ever. She did not, as usual, go to the after- 
noon meeting, for she had no heart to do so. And 
then, as the shades of evening fell dimly around, she 
reproached herself for this omission. Poor soul I 
how sadly did she vex her spirit by self-condem- 
nation. 

That evening several of the society called in at 
the minister’s house, and soon Aunt Mary’s singular 
conduct became the subject of conversation. 

“ Ain’t it strange ?” said one. “ Such a thdng 


AUNT MARY'S PRESERVING KETTLE. IS'J 


Has not occurred for these ten years, to my certain 
knowledge.” 

^^No, nor for twenty either,” remarked the min- 
ister. 

She seemed very uneasy during the sermon,” 
said another. 

“ I thought she did not appear well, as my eye 
fell upon her occasionally,” the minister added. 

But she is one of the best of women, and I sup- 
pose she is undergoing some sore temptation, out ol 
which she will come as gold tried in the fire.” 

I don’t know,” broke in Mrs. Tompkins, who 
was among the visitors, that she is so much better 
than other people. For my part, I can’t say that I 
ever found her to be any thing extra.” 

^^You do not judge of her kindly, Mrs. Tomp- 
kins,” said the minister gravely. I only wish 
that all my parish were as good as she is. I should 
feel, in that case, I am sure, far less concern fol 
souls than I do.” 

Thus rebuked, Mrs. Tompkins contented herself 
by saying, in an under-tone, to one who sat near 
her — 

“ They may say what they please, but I am well 
enough acquainted with her to know that she is no 
better than other people.” 

Thus the conversation and the conjectures went 
round, while the subject of them sat in solitude and 
sadness in her own chamber. Finally, the ministoi 


188 AUNT MARY’S PRESERVING KETlTiE. 


said that he would call in and have some conversa- 
tion with her on the next day, as he had no doubt 
that there was some trouble on her mind, and it 
might be in his power to relieve it. 

Monday morning came at last, and Aunt Mary 
proceeded, though with but little interest in her oc- 
cupation, to do over” her preserves. She found 
them in a state that gave her little hope of being 
able to restore them to any thing like their original 
flavour. But the trial must be made, and so she 
filled her kettle as full as requisite of a particular 
kind, and hung it over a slow fire. This had hardly 
been done, when Hannah came in and said — 

As I live, Mrs. Pierce, there is the minister 
coming up the walk !” 

And sure enough, on glancing out, she saw the 
minister almost at the door-step. 

Bless me !” she exclaimed, and then hurried 
into her little parlour, to await the knock of her 
unexpected visitor. At almost any other time, a 
call from the minister would have been delightful. 
But now, poor Aunt Mary felt that she would as 
Boon have seen any one else. 

The knock came in a moment, and, after a pause, 
the door was opened. 

How do you do. Aunt IMary ? I am very glad 
to see you,” said the minister, extending his hand. 

Aunt Mary looked troubled and confused; but 
she recei'*^ed him in the best way she could. Still 


AUNT Mary’s preserving kettle. 189 


her manner embarrassed them both. After a few 
leading observations, the minister at length said — 
You seem troubled, Aunt Mary. Can any 
thing that I might say relieve the pain of mind 
you evidently feel 

The tears came into Aunt Mary’s eyes, but she 
could not venture to reply. The minister observed 
her emotion, and also the meek expression of her 
countenance. 

Do not vex yourself unnecessarily,” he remark- 
ed. “ If any thing has gone wrong with you, deal 
frankly with your minister. You know that I am 
ever ready to counsel and advise.” 

I know it,” said Aunt Mary, and her voice 
trembled. And I need much your kind direction. 
Yet I hardly know how to tell you my troubles. 
One thing, however, is certain. I have done wrong. 
But how to mend that wrong I know not, while there 
exists an unwillingness on my part to correct it.” 

^^You must shun evil as sin,” the minister re- 
marked in a serious tone. 

I know, and it is for that reason I am troubled. 
I have unkind thoughts, and they are evil, and yet 
I cannot put these unkind thoughts away.” 

For a moment the minister sat silent, and then, 
looking up with a smile, said — 

Come, Aunt Mary, be open and frank. T<dl 
me all the particulars of your troubles, and then 1 
am sure I can help you.” 


1^0 AUNT MxIRY’s preserving KETTLE. 


Aunt Mary, in turn, sat silent and thoughtful for 
a short period, and then, raising her head, she pro* 
ceeded to relate her troubles. She told him how 
much she had been tried, year after year, during 
the preserving season, by the neighbours who had 
borrowed her preserving kettle. It was the best in 
the village, and she took a pride in it, but she could 
have no satisfaction in its possession. It was al- 
ways going, and never returned in good order. She 
then frankly related how she had been tried by 
Mrs. Tompkins, and how nearly all of her preserves 
were spoiled, because she could not get home her 
kettle, — how the unkind feelings which had sud- 
denly sprung up between them in consequence had 
troubled her, and even caused her to abstain, under 
conscientious scruples, from the communion. 

The minister’s heart felt lighter in his bosom as 
she concluded her simple narrative, and, smiling en- 
couragingly, he said — Don’t let it trouble you. 
Aunt Mary; it will all come right again. You have 
certainly been treated very badly, and I don’t won- 
der at all that your feelings were tried.” 

But what shall I do ?” asked Aunt Mary, eager- 
ly, I feel very much troubled, and am very 
anxious to have all unkindness done away.” 

Do you think you can forgive Mrs. Tompkins ?” 

Oh, yes She has not acted kindly, but I can 
forgive her from my heart.” 

^^Then you might call over and see her, and 


AUNT MARY^S PRESERVING KETTLE. 19l 


explain the whole matter. I am sure all difficulties 
will end there.^^ 

I will go this day/^ Aunt Mary said, encourag- 
ingly. 

The minister sat a short time longer, and then 
went away. He had no sooner gone, than Aunt 
Mary put on her things and went directly over to 
Mrs. Tompkins. 

^^Good morning, Mrs. Pierce,’^ that lady said, 
coolly, as her visitor entered. She had always before 
called Aunt Mary by the familiar name by which 
she was known in the village. 

Good morning, Mrs. Tompkins. I have come 
over to say that I am very sorry if I offended you 
on Saturday. I am sure I did not mean to do so. 
I only sent for my kettle, and would not have done 
that, had not some seven or eight jars of preserves 
been working. 

Oh, it was no offence to send for your kettle,’' 
Mrs. Tompkins replied, smiling. That was all 
right and proper. I was only a little vexed at your 
Hannah’s impudence. But, Aunt Mary, ^ let has- 
beens be has-beens.’ I am sorry that there has 
occurred the least bit of coolness between us.” 

Aunt Mary’s heart bounded as lightly as if a 
hundred-pound weight had been taken from it; she 
was made happy on the instant. 

You don’t know how glad I am to hear you say 
so, Mrs. Tompkins,” she said, earnestly. It has 


192 ACNT MARY^S PRESERVING KETTLE. 


removed a load from my heart. Hereafter, I hope 
nothing will occur again to disturb our friendly 
feelings. You may have the kettle again, in a day 
or two, in welcome, and keep it as long as you 
please.^^ 

The breach was thus easily healed; and had Aunt 
Mary gone over on Saturday to see Mrs. Tompkins, 
she would have saved herself a world of trouble. 

Still, nothing of this was known to the other mem- 
bers of the church, who were as full, of conjecture 
as ever, touching the singular conduct, as they called 
it, of Aunt Mary. The minister said nothing, and 
Mrs. Tompkins, of course, said nothing; and no one 
ventured to question Aunt Mary. 

On the next Sabbath, Aunt Mary came to church 
as usual, and all eyes were instantly upon her. 
Some thought she still looked troubled, and was 
paler than before, while others perceived that she 
was really more cheerful. In due time, the minister 
arose and announced his text : 

Give to him that asketh, and of him that would 
borrow of thee, turn thou not away.’^ 

“ My dear friends,’’ said he, on drawing near to 
the close of his subject, the text teaches us, besides 
that of simple alms-giving, the duty of lending; but 
you will observe, it says not a word about borrowing. 
Under the law laid down here, we may lend as much 
as we please, but it gives no license to borrow. Now, 
as far as I have been able to learn, a number of my 


AUNT MARY^S PRESERVING KETTLE. 193 


congregation have not been very particular on this 
point. They seem to think that it is helping their 
neighbours to keep this injunction to lend, by com- 
pelling an obedience to the precept, whether they 
are inclined to obey or not. Now, this is wrong. 
We are justified in lending to those who need such 
kind offices, but not to put others to the inconveni- 
ence of lending when we are fully able to supply 
our own wants. This is going beyond the scope of 
the Divine injunction, and I hold it to be morally 
wrong to do so. Some of you, I am credibly in- 
formed,^’ and his voice fell to a low, distinct, and 
solemn tone, are in the habit of regularly borrow- 
ing Aunt Mary’s preserving kettle — (here Aunt 
Mary looked up with a bewildered air, while her 
face coloured deeply, and the whole congregation 
stared in amazement ; but the minister went calmly 
on) — and this, too, without regard to her conveni- 
ence. Nor is this all — the kettle is hardly ever re- 
turned in a good condition. How thoughtless ! how 
wrong ! In this, Aunt Mary alone has been faithful 
to the precept in my text, while you have departed 
widely from its true spirit. Let me hope that you 
will think better of this matter, and wisely resolve 
to let your past short-comings suffice.” 

And thus the sermon closed. It may well be 
supposed that for some days there was something of 
a stir in the hive. The ladies of the congregation 
who were among the borrowers of the preserving 
17 


194 AUNT mart’s preserving kettle. 


kettle, and they were not a few, including the minis- 
ter’s wife, were for a time deeply incensed at Aunt 
Mary, and not a few at the minister. But this 
temporary indignation soon wore off, for Aunt Mary 
was so kind and good that no one could feel offended 
with her for any length of time, more especially 
where there was really no cause of offence. One 
by one, they called upon her, as they were enabled 
to see how really they had been guilty of trespassing 
upon good nature, and, after apologizing, enjoyed 
with her a hearty laugh upon the subject. And, 
finally, the whole thing came to be looked upon as 
quite an amusing as well as an instructive affair. 

After this. Aunt Mary was allowed to possess her 
beautiful bell-metal preserving kettle in peace, which 
was to her a source of no small satisfaction. And 
what was more, in the course of the next preserving 
season, a stock of twenty or thirty brass, copper, 
and bell-metal kettles, that had been lying for years 
on the shelves of a hardware-dealer’s store in the 
village, almost uninquired for, were all sold off, and 
a new supply obtained from Boston to meet the 
increased demand. 


HOME AT LAST. 


We^re home at last, and I am 50 glad V* ex- 
claimed a little girl, not over ten years of age, as 
she paused at twilight with her mother before a 
small and mean-looking house, one evening late in 
the month of November. 

The mother did not reply, hut lifted the latch, 
when both passed in. There was no light in the 
dwelling, and no fire on the hearth. All was cold, 
dark, and cheerless in that place which had been 
called home’' by the little girl ; yet, cold, dark, 
and cheerless as it was, she still felt glad to be 
there once more. 

^^/will get a light, mother," said she, in a cheer- 
ful tone, running to a closet, and taking thence a 
candle and a match. 

In a moment or two afterwards the candle was 
burning brightly, and throwing its light into every 
corner of that meanly-furnished room, which con- 
tained but few articles, and they the simplest that 
were needed. An old pine table, without leaves, 

three or four old chairs the paint from which had 

195 


196 


HOME AT LAST. 


long since disappeared, a bench and a water bucket, 
with a few cooking utensils, made up the furniture 
of the apartment. 

A small fire was soon kindled on the hearth, over 
which the mother hung a tea-kettle. When this 
had boiled, and she had drawn some tea, she placed 
upon the table a few slices of bread and a piece of 
cheese, which she took from a basket that she had 
borne on her arm. Then the mother and child sat 
down to partake of their frugal meal, which both 
eat with a keen relish. 

Fm so glad to get home again V* the little girl 
said, glancing up into her mothers face, with a 
cheerful smile. 

The mother looked upon her child with a tender 
expression, but did not reply. She thought how 
poor and comfortless that home was which seemed 
so desirable. 

I don’t like to go to Mrs. Walker’s,” said the 
child, after the lapse of a few moments. 

Why not, Jane 

Because I can’t do any thing right there. Amy 
scolds me if I touch a thing, and John won’t let mo 
go any place, except into the kitchen. I’m sure I 
like home a great deal better, and I wish you would 
always stay at home, mother.” 

“ I would never go out, Jane, if I could help it,” 
the mother replied, in the effort to make her daugh- 
ter understand, that she might acquiesce in the 


HOME AT LAST. 


197 


necessity. But you know tliat we must eat, and 
have clothes to wear, and pay for the house we live 
in. I could not get the money to do all this, if 1 
did not go out to work in other people’s houses, and 
then we would be hungry, and cold, and not have 
any home to come to.” 

The little girl sighed and remained silent for a 
few moments. Then she said, in a more cheerful 
tone, 

I know it’s wrong for me to talk as I do, mo- 
ther, and I’ll try not to complain any more. It’s a 
great deal harder for you than it is for me to go into 
these big people’s houses. You have to work so 
hard, and I have only to sit still in the kitchen. 
But won’t father come home soon ? He’s been 
away so long ! When he was home we had every 
thing we wanted, and you didn’t have to go out a 
working.” 

Tears came into the mother’s eyes, and her feel- 
ings were so moved, that she could not venture to 
reply. 

“ Won’t he he home soon, mother ?” pursued the 
child. 

I’m afraid not,” the mother at length said, in 
as calm a voice as she could assume. 

<‘Why not, mother? He’s been gone a long 
time.” 

I cannot tell you, my child. But I don’t 
peel him home soon.” 


17 * 


198 


HOME AT LAST. 


Oh, I wish he would come,^^ th^e child resj)onded, 
earnestly. If he was only home, you would not 
have to go out to work any more.^^ 

The mother thought that she heard the movement 
of some one near the door, and leant her head in a 
' listening attitude. But all was silent without, save the 
occasional sound of footsteps as some one hurried by. 

To give the incidents and characters that we have 
introduced their true interest, we must go back some 
twelve years, and bring the history of at least one 
of the individuals down from that time. 

A young lady and one of more mature age sat 
near a window, conversing earnestly, about the pe- 
riod to which we have reference. 

would make it an insuperable objection, the 
elder of the two said, in a decided tone. 

But surely there can be no harm in his drink- 
ing a glass of wine or brandy now and then. 
Where is the moral wrong 

Do you wish to be a drunkard’s wife?’' 

No, I would rather be dead.” 

Then beware how you become the wife of any 
man who indulges in even moderate drinking. No 
man can do so without being in danger. The vilest 
drunkard that goes staggering past your door, will 
tell you that once he dreamed not of the danger 
that lurked in the cup ; that, before he suspected 
evil, a desire too strong for his weak resistance was 
formed.” 


HOME AT LAST. 


I9fl 

I don^t believe, aunt, that there is the slightest 
danger in the world of Edward Lee. He become a 
drunkard 1 How can you dream of such a thing, 
aunt V* 

I have seen much more of the world than yoi> 
have, Alice. And I have seen too many as high- 
minded and as excellent in character as Edward 
Lee, who have fallen. And I have seen the bright 
promise of too many girls utterly extinguished, not 
to tremble for you. I tell you, Alice, that of all 
the causes of misery that exist in the married life, 
intemperance is the most fruitful. It involves not 
only external privations, toil, and disgrace, but that 
unutterable hopelessness which we feel when look- 
ing upon the moral debasement of one we have re- 
spected, esteemed, and loved.^^ 

“ I am sure, aunt, that I will not attempt to 
gainsay all that. If there is any condition in life 
that seems to me most deplorable and heart-break- 
ing, it is the condition of a drunkard’s wife. But, 
so far as Edward Lee is concerned, I am sure there 
does not exist the remotest danger.’^ 

There is always danger where there is indul- 
gence. The man who will drink one glass a day 
now, will be very apt to drink two glasses in a 
twelvemonth; and so go on increasing, until his 
power over himself is gone. Many, very many, do 
not become drunkards until they are old men ; but, 
sooner or later, in nine cases out of ten. a man wh<? 


200 


HOME AT LAST. 


allows himself to drink habitually, I care not how 
moderately at first, will lose his self-control.’^ 

“ Still, aunt, I cannot for a moment bring my- 
self to apprehend danger in the case of Edward.” 

So have hundreds said before you. So did I 
once say, Alice. But years of heart-aching misery 
told how sadly I was mistaken !” 

The feelings of Alice were touched by this allu- 
sion. She had never before dreamed that her uncle, 
who died while she was but a little girl, had been 
a drunkard. Still, nothing that her aunt said 
caused her to entertain even a momentary doubt of 
Edward Lee. She felt that he had too much of the 
power of principle in his character ever to be car- 
ried away by the vice of intemperance. 

Edward Lee had ofiered himself in marriage to 
Alice Liston, and it was on the occasion of her men- 
tioning this to her aunt that the conversation just 
given occurred. It had, however, no efiect upon the 
mind of Alice. She loved Edward Lee tenderly, 
and, herefore, had every confidence in him. They 
were consequently, married, and commenced life 
with >rospects bright and flattering. But Edward 
coriti ued to use intoxicating drinks in moderate 
quai ities every day. And, while the taste for it 
was arming, lift was wholly unconscious of danger. 
He ould as readily have believed himself in danger 
of ordering his wife, as in danger of becoming a 
tard. He was a young merchant in a good 


HOME AT LAST. 


201 


business when married, and able to put his young 
wife in possession of a beautifully furnished house 
and all required domestic attendance, so as to leave 
her but a very small portion of care. 

Like the passage of a delightful dream were the 
first five years of her wedded life. No one was ever 
happier than she in her married lot, or more uncon* 
scious of coming evil. She loved her husband ten* 
derly and deeply, and he was all to her that she 
could desire. One sweet child blessed their union. 

At the end of the period named, like the sudden 
bursting of a fearful tempest from a summer sky, 
came the illness and death of her aunt, who had 
been a mother to her from childhood. 

Scarcely had her heart begun to recover from this 
shock, when it was startled by another and more 
terrible aJffliction. All at once it became apparent 
that her husband was losing his self-control. And 
the conversation that she had held with her aunt 
about him, years before, came up fresh in her 
memory, like the echo of a warning voice, now 
heard, alas ! too late. ‘ She noticed, with alarm, 
that he drank largely of brandy at dinner, and was 
much stupified when he would rise from the table — 
always retiring and sleeping for an hour before 
going back to his business. Strange, it seemed to 
her, that she had never remarked this before 
Now, if she had desired it, she could not close bei 
eyes to the terrible truth. 


202 


HOME AT LAST. 


For many weeks she bore with the regulai daily 
occurrence of what has just been alluded to. By 
that time, her feelings became so excited, that she 
could keep silence no longer. 

I wouldn’t drink any more brandy, Edward,” 
said she, one day at the dinner table ; it does you 
no good.” 

“How do you know that it does not?” was the 
prompt reply, made in a tone that expressed very 
clearly a rebuke for interfering in a matter that, as 
he thought, did not concern her. 

“ I cannot think that it does you any good, and 
it may do you harm,” the wife said, hesitatingly, 
while her eyes grew dim with tears. 

“ Do me harm ! What do you mean, Alice ?” 

“ It does hai*m, sometimes, you know, Edward ?” 

“ That is, it makes drunkards sometimes. And 
you are afraid that your husband will become a 
drunkard ! Quite a compliment to him, truly !” 

“ 0, no, no, no, Edward ! I am sure you will 
never be one. But — but — but — ” 

“ But what ?” 

“ There is always danger, you know, Edward.” 

“ Oh yes, of course ! And I am going to be a 
drunken vagabond, if I keep on drinking a glass of 
brandy at dinner time !’^ 

“ Don’t talk so, Edward !” said Mrs. Lee, giving 
way to tears. “ You never spoke to me in this way 
before.” 


HOME AT LAST. 


203 


I know I never did. Nor did my wife ever in- 
einnate before that she thought me in danger of be- 
coming that debased, despised thing, a drunkard V* 
Say no more, Edward, in mercy I” Mrs. Lee 
responded — I did not mean to offend you. I*ardon 
me this once, and I will never again allude to the 
subject.” 

A sullen silence followed on the part of Lee, who 
drank frequently during the meal, and seemed to do 
so more with the evil pleasure of paining his wife 
than from any other motive. So sadly perverting 
is the influence of liquor upon some men, when op- 
posed, changing those who are kind and affectionate 
into cruel and malicious beings. 

From that hour Mrs. Lee was a changed woman. 
She felt that the star of love, which for so many 
happy years had thrown its rays into the very midst 
of their fireside circle, had become hidden amid 
clouds, from which she looked at every moment 
for the bursting of a desolating storm. And her 
husband was, likewise, a changed man. His pride 
and self-love had been wounded, and he could not 
forgive her who had thus wounded him, even though 
she were his wife. Whenever he was under the in- 
fluence of liquor, he would brood over her words, 
and indulge in bitter thoughts against her because 
she had presumed to insinuate that there was danger 
of his becoming a drunkard. 

At last he was brought home in a state of drunken 


204 


HOME AT LAST. 


insensibility. This humbled him for a time, but 
did not cause him to abandon the use of intoxi- 
cating drinks. And it was not long before he was 
again in the same condition. 

But we cannot linger to trace, step by step, hia 
downward course, nor to describe its effects upon 
the mind of his wife ; but will pass over five years 
more, and again introduce them to the reader. 

How sadly altered is every thing ! The large 
and comfortable house, in an eligible position, has 
been changed for a small, close, ill-arranged tene- 
ment. The elegant furniture has disappeared, and 
in its place are but few articles, and those old and 
common. But the saddest change of all is appa- 
rent in the face, dress, and air of Mrs. Lee. Her 
pale, thin, sorrow-stricken countenance — her old 
and faded garments — her slow, melancholy move- 
ments, contrast sadly with what she was a few years 
before. 

A lot of incessant toil is now her portion. Lee 
has, in consequence of intemperance, causing neg- 
lect of business, failed, and had every thing taken 
from him to pay his debts. For a while after this 
event, he contributed to the support of his wife and 
child by acting in the capacity of a clerk. But he 
soon became so dissipated, that no merchant would 
employ him, and the entire support of the family 
fell upon his wife. That was, in the very nature 
of things, an exceedingly meagre support. Mrs. 


HOME AT LAST. 


205 


Lee bad never looked forward to sack a condition 
in life, and therefore was entirely unprepared for it. 
Ordinary sewing was all that she could do, and at 
this she could make but a small pittance. The little 
that her husband earned was all expended in the 
rccui-sed poison that had already ruined himself and 
beggared his family. 

After having suffered every thing to sink to this 
condition, Lee found so little attractive in the ap- 
pearance of a heart-broken wife and beggared child, 
and so much about them to reprove him, that he 
left them without a word, and went off to a neigh- 
bouring city. 

How passing strange is the effect of - drunkenness 
upon the mind and character of a man ! Is it not 
wonderful how the tender, affectionate, and provident 
husband and father can become so changed into a 
worse than brutal insensibility to all the sacred du- 
ties of life ? Is it not wonderful how the man, who 
would, to-day, sacrifice even life itself for the safety 
of his family — ^who thinks nothing of toil, early 
and late, that he may provide for every want, can 
in a few years forsake them, and leave them to 
struggle, single-handed, with sickness and poverty ? 
But so it is ! Instances of such heartless abandon- 
ment are familiar to every one. Surely,^^ as it 
has been said, strong drink is a devil For he 
that comes under its influence is transformed into a 
worse than brutal nature. 


18 


206 


HOME AT LAST. 


For a time after Lee went away, Lis wife was 
enabled, by sewing, to meet the scanty wants of her- 
self and child. The burden of his support had 
been removed, and that was something gained. 
But a severe illness, during which both herself and 
little Jane suffered much for the want of nourishing 
food, left her with impaired sight. She could no 
longer, by sewing, earn the money required to buy 
food and pay her rent, and was compelled to resort 
to severe bodily toil to accomplish that end. 

From several of the old friends of her better 
days, she had obtained sewing, and necessity com- 
pelled her to resort to them for still humbler em- 
ployment. 

Good morning, Mrs. Lee ! I have been won- 
dering what in the world had become of you,^^ said 
one of those former friends, a Mrs. Walker, as the 
poor woman called to see her, after her recovery. 

“ I have been very sick,^^ replied Mrs. Lee, in a 
low feeble voice, and her appearance told too plainly 
the effects of the sickness upon her. 

I’m sorry to hear it. But I am very glad you 
are out again, for my sewing is all behindhand.” 

“ I’m afraid that I shall not be able to do any 
more sewing for a good while,” said Mrs. Lee, de- 
spondingly. 

Indeed ! And why not?” 

“ Because my eyes have become so weak that 1 
can scarcely see.” 


HOME AT LAST, 


207 


Then what do you expect to do ? How will 
you get along, Mrs. Lee 

I can hardly tell myself. But I must do some 
thing/^ 

What can you do besides sewing 
- donH know of any thing, unless I take in 
washing/' 

Take in washing ! You are not fit to stand at 
the washing tub." 

know that, ma'am. But when we are driven 
to it, we can do a great many things, even though 
we gradually fail under our task." 

A pause of a few moments ensued, which wa^ 
broken by Mrs. Lee. 

Will you not give me your washing to do, Mrs 
Walker?" she asked, hesitatingly. 

Why, I don't know about that, Mrs. Lee. 1 
never put my washing out of the house." 

“ You hire some one in the house, then ?" 

Yes, and if you will come for what I pay my 
present washerwoman, why I suppose I might as 
well throw it in your way." 

Oh yes, of course I will. How much do you 
give ?" 

I give half a dollar a day. Can you come for 
that?" 

If you will let me bring my little girl along. 
I could not leave her alone." 

don't know about that," replied Mrs. Walker 


‘208 


HOME AT LAST. 


ijiusingly. I have so many children of my own 
about the house/^ 

“ She will not he at all trouhlesoine, ma’am/’ the 
poor woman urged. 

Will she he willing to stay in the kitchen ?” 

Oh yes, I will keep her there.” 

“ W^ell, Mrs. Lee, I suppose I might as well en- 
gage you. But there is one thing that I wish un- 
derstood. The person that I hire to help do the 
washing must scrub up the kitchen after the clothes 
are all out. Are you willing to do that ?” 

Oh yes, ma’am. I will do it,” said Mrs. Lee, 
while her heart sank within her at the idea of per- 
forming tasks for which her feeble health and 
strength seemed altogether insufficient. But she 
felt that she must put her hands to the work, if she 
died in the effort to perform it. 

Three days afterwards, she entered, as was agreed 
upon, at half a dollar a day, the kitchen of Mrs. 
Walker, who had hut a few years before been one 
of her friends and companions. 

It is remarkable, how persons of the most deli- 
cate constitutions will sometimes bear up under the 
severest toil, and encounter the most trying priva- 
tions, and yet not fail, but really appear to gain 
some degree of strength under the ordeal that it 
seemed, to all human calculation, must destroy them. 
So it was with Mrs. Lee. Although she suffered 
much from debility and weariness, occasioned by ex- 


HOME AT LAST. 


209 


cessive toil for one all unaccustomed to hard labour, 
yet she did not, as she feared, sink rapidly under it. 
By taking in as much washing and ironing as she 
could do, and going out two days in the week 
regularly, she managed to procure for herself and 
child the bare necessaries of life. This she had 
continued for about two years at the time when first 
introduced to the reader^s attention, as returning 
with her child to her comfortless home. 

The slight movement near her door, which Mrs. 
Lee had thought to be only an imaginary sound, 
was a reality. While little Jane spoke of her 
father, and wondered at his absence, a man, com- 
fortably clad in coarse garments, stood near the 
door in a listening attitude. Once or twice he laid 
his hand upon the latch, but each time withdrew it 
and stood musing in seeming doubt. Oh, I wish 
father would come home I” fell upon his ear, in 
clear, distinct, earnest tones. 

He did not hear the low reply, though he listened 
eagerly. Only for a moment longer did he pause. 
Then swinging the door open, and stepping in 
quickly, he said in an earnest voice, “ And I have 
come home at last, my child ! — at last, my dear 
Alice ! if you will let me speak to you thus tenderly 
— never, never again to leave you I” 

Poor Mrs. Lee started and turned pale as her 
husband entered thus abruptly, and all unexpected. 
But she saw a change in him that was not to bo 


210 


HOME AT LAST. 


mistakeii ; and all her former love returned with 
overwhelming tenderness. Still she restrained her- 
self with a strong effort, and said — 

Edward, how do you come V' 

As a sober man. As a true husband and father, 
I trust, to my wife and child; to banish sorrow 
from their hearts, and wipe the tears from their 
eyes. Will you receive me thus V* 

He had but half finished, when Mrs. Lee sprang 
towards him, and fell sobbing in his outstretched 
arms. She saw that he was in earnest, she felt 
that he was in earnest, and once more a gleam of 
sunshine fell upon her heart. 

Years have passed, and no cloud has yet dimmed 
the light that then dawned upon the darkness of 
Mrs. Lee’s painful lot. Her husband is fast rising, 
by industry and intelligence, towards the condition 
in life which he had previously occupied ; and she 
is beginning again to find herself in congenial as- 
sociations. May the light of her peaceful home 
never again grow dim. 


GOING HOME. 


1t*s nearly a year, now, since I was home,*' 
8k-id Lucy Gray to her husband, and so you must 
let me go for a few weeks/* 

They had been married some four or five years, 
and never had been separated, during that time, for 
twenty -four hours at a time. 

I thought you called this your home,** remarked 
Gray, looking up, with a mock-serious air. 

I mean my old home,** replied Lucy, in a half- 
affected tone of anger. ^^Or, to make it plain, I 
want to go and see father and mother.** 

Can*t you wait three or four months, until I 
can go with you ?** asked the young husband. 

I want to go now. You said all along that I 
should go in May.** 

I know I did. But I thought I would be able 
to go with you.** 

Well, why can*t you go ? lam sure you might, 
if you would** 

^^No, Lucy, I cannot possibly leave home now. 
But if you are very anxious to see the old folks, I 
can put you into the stage, and you will go safe 
enough. Ellen and I can take care of little Lucy 

211 


212 


aOING HOME. 


no doubt. How long a time do you wish to spend 
with them?” 

About three weeks, or so.” 

“Very well, Lucy; if you are not afraid to go 
alone, I will not say a word.” 

“ I am not afraid, dear,” said the wife, in a voice 
changed and softened in its expression. “ But are 
you perfectly willing to let me go, Henry ?” 

“ Oh, certainly,” was the reply, although the tone 
in which the words were uttered had something of 
reluctance in it. “ It would be selfish in me to say, 
no. Your father and mother will be delighted to 
receive a visit just now.” 

“And you think that you and Ellen can get 
along with little Lucy ?” 

“ Oh yes, very well.” 

“ I should like to go, so much I” 

“ Go, then, by all means.” 

“ But won't you be very lonesome without me ?” 
suggested Lucy, in whose own bosom a feeling of 
loneliness was already beginning to be felt at the 
bare idea of a separation from her husband. 

“I can stand it as long as you,” was Gray’s 
laughing reply to this. “ And then I shall have 
our dear little girl.” 

Lucy laughed in return, but did not feel as happy 
at the idea of “going home” as she thought she 
would be, before her husband's consent had been 
gained. The desire to go, however, remaining 


GOING HOME. 


213 


strong, it was finally settled that the visit should be 
paid. So all the preparations were entered upon, and 
in the course of a week Henry Gray saw his wife 
take her seat in the stage, with a feeling of regret 
at parting, which required all his efforts to conceal. 
As for Lucy, when the moment of separation came, 
she regretted ever having thought of going without 
her husband and child ; but she was ashamed to let 
her real feelings be known. So she kept up a show 
of indifference, all the while that her heart was flut- 
tering. The good-bye’^ was finally said, the driver 
cracked his whip, and off rolled the stage. Gray 
turned homewards with a dull, lonely feeling, and 
Lucy drew her veil over her face to conceal the un- 
bidden tears from her fellow-passengers. 

That night, poor Mr. Gray slept but little. How 
could he ? His Lucy was absent, and, for the first 
time, from his side. On the next morning, as he 
could think of nothing but his wife, he sat down 
and wrote to her, telling her how lost and lonely he 
felt, and how much little Lucy missed her, but still 
to try and enjoy herself, and by all means to write 
him a letter by return mail. 

As for Mrs. Gray, during her journey of two 
whole days, she cried fully half of the time, and 
when she got home’' at last, that is, at her father’s, 
she looked the picture of distress, rather than the 
daughter full of joy at meeting her parents. 

Right glad were the old people to see their deal 


214 


GOING HOME. 


child, but grieved, at the same time, and a litth hurt, 
t(/o, at her weakness and evident regret at having 
left her husband, to make them a brief visit. The 
real pleasure that Lucy felt at once more seeing the 
faces of her parents, whom she tenderly loved, was 
not strong enough to subdue and keep in conceal- 
ment, except for a very short period at a time, her 
yearning desire again to be with her husband, for 
whom she never before experienced a feeling of 
such deep and earnest atfection. Several times, 
during the first day of her visit, did her mother find 
her in tears, which she would quickly dash aside, 
and then endeavour to smile and seem cheerful. 

The day after her arrival brought her a letter — 
the first she had ever received from her husband. 
How precious was every word ! How often and 
often did she read it over, until every line was en- 
graven on her memory 1 Then she sat down, and 
spent some two or three hours in replying to it. As 
she sealed this first epistle to her husband, full of ten- 
der expressions, she sighed, as the wish arose in her 
mind, involuntarily, that she could only go with it 
on its journey to the village of . 

Long were the hours, and wearily passed, to 
Henry Gray. It was the sixth day of trial before 
Lucy’s answer came. How dear to his heart w'aa 
every word of her afiectionate epistle ! Like her 
he went over it so often, that every sentiment was 
fixed in his mind. 


GOING HOME. 


215 


Two weeks longer ! How can I bear it he 
said, rising up, and pacing the floor backwards and 
fcTwards, after reading her letter for the tenth time. 

On the next day, the seventh of his lonely state, 
Mr. Gray sat down to write again to Lucy. Several 
times he wrote the words, as he proceeded in the 
letter — ^^Come home soon,’^ — but as often obliterated 
them. He did not wish to appear over-anxious for 
her return, on her father’s and mother’s account, who 
were much attached to her. But, forgetting this reason 
for not urging her early return, he had commenced 
again writing the words, Come home soon,” when a 
pair of soft hands were suddenly placed over his eyes, 
by some one who had stolen softly up behind him. 

Guess my name !” said a voice, in feigned tones. 

Gray had no need to guess whose were the hands, 
for a sudden cry of joy from a little toddling thing, 
told that “Mamma” had come. 

How “ Mamma” was hugged and kissed all round, 
need not here be told. That scene was well enough 
in its place, but would lose its interest in telling. It 
may be imagined, however, without suffering any par- 
ticular detriment, by all who have a fancy for such 
things. 

“ And father, too I” suddenly exclaimed Mr. Gray, 
after he had almost smothered his wife with kisses, 
looking up, with an expression of pleasure and sur- 
prise, at an old man wn. stood looking on, with hia 
good-humoured face covered with smiles. 


216 


GOING HOME. 


Yes. I had to bring the good-for-nothing jade 
home,” replied the old man, advancing and grasping 
his son-in-law’s hand, with a hearty grip. She did 
nothing but mope and cry alj the while, and I don’t 
care if she never comes to see us again, unless she 
brings you along to keep her in good-humour.” 

And I never intend going alone again,” Mrs. 
Gray said, holding a little chubby girl to her bosom, 
while she kissed it over and over again, at the same 
time that she pressed close up to her husband’s side. 

The old man understood it all. He was not jea- 
lous of Lucy’s affection, for he knew that she loved 
him as tenderly as ever. He was too glad to know 
that she was happy with a husband to whom she 
was as the apple of his eye. In about three months 
Lucy made another visit home.” But husband 
and child were along, this time, and the visit proved 
a happy one all around. Of course, father and 
mother” had their jest and their laugh, and their 
affectation of jealousy and anger at Lucy for her 
‘^childishness,” as they termed it, when home in 
May; but Lucy, though half-vexed at herself for 
what she called a weakness, nevertheless persevered 
in saying that she never meant to go anywhere 
again without Henry. “ That was settled.^’ 


£B the women of our households when they undertake tc make theii 
8s bright and cheery. Nothing deters them. Their weary work may 
3 long as the word which begins this paragraph, but they prove their 
rd ior decent homes by their indefatigability. What a pity that any 
lera should add to their toil by neglecting to use Bapolio. It reduoet 
Lb or ci ©loaning and scouiing at least one-half. ICe. a cake.. Sold 



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The Red Eric 

The Fire Brig:ide 

Erling the Hold 

Deep Down 

BY S. BARING-GOULD 

Little Tn’penny 

BY GEORGE MIDDLETON BA.YW, 

460 Galaski 

BY AUGUST EEBEL 

Woman 

MRS. E. BEDELL EENJAM", 

Our Roman Palace 

BY A. BENRIMO 

Vic 

BY E. BERGER 

Charles Auchester 

BY W. 5ERGS0E 

Piilone 


IK 1 


215 

226 

239 

241 


& 


878 


411 


712 

BY 

748 


470 


1;4 


1^ 


111 


901 


77 


103 

118 

257 

208 

384 

099 

842 

847 


BY WALTER BESANT 

Let Nothing Yon Dismay 

They Wore Married 

All in a Gai’den Fair 

When the Ship Comes Home. 

Dorothy Forster 

Self or Bearer 

The World Went Very Well Then ! ! 
The Holy Rose 


LOVELL’S LIBRAEY. 


BY E. BERTHET 


'366 The Sergeant's Legacy 20 

BY BJORNSTJERTJE EjORNSON 

3 Tlie Happy Boy 10 

4 Arne 10 


BY LILLIE D. BLAKE 

105 Woman's Place To-day 2<5 

597 Fettered for Life 25 

BY ANNIE BRADSHAW 

716 A Crimson Slain 20 


40 

-<S 


136 

142 

146 

153 

‘78 

IRC 

182 

184 

188 

213 

216 

217 

218 
225 
282 
456 
584 
678 


BY WILLIAM BLACK 

An Adveidurein Thule, etc 10 

A Princess ot Thule 20 

A Daughter of Heth 20 

Shnudou Bells. ... .20 

iVIacleod 01 Dare 20 

Yol tude 20 

Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. ..20 

White Wing.s 20 

Sunrise, 2 Parts, each 15 

Madi;ap Violet -20 

Kilmeny 20 

That Beautiful Wretch 20 

Green Pastures, etc 20 

In Silk Attire 20 

The Three Feathers 20 

Lady Silverdale's Sweetheart 10 

The Four l\[acNicols It) 

Mr. Pisistratns Brown, M.P lO 

Oliver Goldsmith 10 

Monarch of Mincing Lane 20 

Judith Shakespeare 20 

Wise Women of Inverness 10 

White Heather 20 

BY R. D. BLACKMORE 


BY CHARLOTTE BREMER 

418 Life of Fredrika Bremer 20 

BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE 

74 Jane Eyre 20 

897 Shirley 20 

BY RHODA BROUGHTON 

23 Second Thoughts 20 

2t0 Belinda 20 

781- Bettv’s Visions 15 

841 Dr. Unpid 20 

BY ELIZABETH BARRETT 
BROWNING. 

421 Aurora Leigh 20 

479 Poems 35 

BY ROBERT BROWNING 

552 Selections from Poetical Works 20 

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

443 Poems 20 

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN 

SIS The New Abehml 20 

696 The Master of tho Mine 10 


851 Lorria Doone, Part I. 20 

851 Lorna Doone, Part II .20 

936 Maid of Sker 20 


BY MISS M. E. BRADDON 


' 88 The Golden Calf 2C 

: 104 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

214 Phantom Fortune 20 

266 Under the Bed Flag 10 

444 An I>binaelite 20 

' 555 Aurora Floyd 20 

i 6S8 To the Bitter End 20 

' 596 Dead Seii Frnit 20 

. 898 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

: 766 Vi.xcn 20 

783 The Octoroon 20 

814 Jlohawks 20 

868 One Thing Needful 20 

86.) Barbara; or. Splendid Misery 20 

870 John Marchmont's T.egacy 20 

871 .Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

872 Taken at the Flood 20 

673 Asphodel 20 

877 Tho Doetor's Wife 20 

678 Only a Clod 20 

679 Sir Jas))er's Tenant 20 

88;0 Lady's Milo 20 

861 Birds of Prey 20 

682 Charlotte’s inheritance 20 

SSI Ilapert Godwin 20 

S86 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

867 A Strange World 20 

888 Mount iloyal 20 

889 Just As I Am 20 

890 Dead Men's Shoes 20 

892 Host.' ges to Fortune 20 

893 Fenton’s Quest 20 

894 The Cloven Foot 20 


i 


I 

i 


BY JOHN EUNYAN 

200 The Pilgrim’s Progress 20 

BY ROBERT BURNS 

430 Poems 20 

BY REV. JA3. S. BUSH 

113 Moi'e Words a’uont the Bible 20 

BY E. LASSETER BYNNER 

100 Nimport. 2 Parts, each 15 

102 Tritons, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL 

.526 Poems 20 

BY ROSA NOUCHETE CAREY 

660 For Lilias 20 

911 Not Like other Girls 20 

912 Bobert Or;l’s Atonement 20 

BY WM. CARLETON 

190 Willy Reilly 

820 Shane Fadh’s W«i(lding 10 

S21 Larry McFaiiand's Wake 10 

822 The Party Fight and Funeral 10 

82.3 Tiio Midnight Mass. 10 

824 Phil Pnreel 10 

82.5 An Irish Oath 10 

826 Going to Munorth 10 

827 Pheliin O’Toole’s Courtship 10 

828 Dominick, the Poor Scholar 10 

829 Neal Malone 10 

BY LEWIS CARROLL 

480 Alice’s Adventures 20 

481 Through tho Looking-Glass 20 

BY “ CAVENDISH ” 

422 Cavendish Card Essays. 15 


2 


417 

119 

IS'? 

277 

2S7 

42? 

i45S 

‘4r,5 

474 

476 

558 

693 

651 

609 

689 

692 

694 

695 

700 

701 

718 

720 

727 

730 

733 

738 

739 

740 

744 

752 

764 

800 

801 

803 

804 

-806 

807 

808 

809 

810 

811 

812 

815 

896 

922 

923 

926 

928 

929 

93G 

932 

933 

934 

8 

9 

24 

87 

418 

437 

68:3 

6^86 

722 

S39 


LOVELL’S LIBEALY 


BY CERVANTES 

Don Quixote 

BY L. W. CHAMPNEY 

Bourbon Lilies 

BY BERTHA M CLAY 

Her Mother's Sin 

Dor:i Tiiorne 

Beyond Pardon 

A Broken Wedding-Ring 

Repented at Leisure 

Sunshine and Roses 

The Earl’s Atonement 

A Woman’s Temptation 

Love Works Wonders 

Pair but False 

Between Two Sins 

At War with Herself 

Hilda 

Her Martyrdom 

Lord Lynn’s Choice 

The Shadow of a Sin 

Wedded and Parted 

In Cupid’s Net 

Lady Lainer’s Secret 

A Gilded Sin , 

Betweeji Two Loves * 

Fur Another’s Sin 

Romance of a Young Girl 

A Queen Among.st Women 

A Golden Dawn 

Like no Other Love 

A Bitter Atonement 

Evelyn’s Folly 

Set in Diamonds 

A Fair Mysterj' 

Thorns and Orange Blossoms. 

Romance of a Black Veil 

Love's Warfare 

Madolin’s Lover 

From Out the Gloom 

Which Loved Him Best 

A True Magdalen 

The Sin of a Lifetime 

Prince Charlie’s Daughter 

A Golden Heart . 

Wife in Name Only 

A Woman’s Error 

lilariorie 

A Willful ]\raid 

Lady Castlemaine's Divorce... 

Claribel's Love Story 

Thrown on the World 

Dndcr a Shadow 

A Struggle for a Ring 

Hilary's Folly 

A Haunted Life 

A Woman's Love Story 

BY V;iLinE COLLINS 

T’ne Moonstone. Part I 

The Moonstone, Part II 

The New’ Magdalen 

H eart. and Science 

“I Say No” 

Tales of Two Idle Apprentices 

The Ghost’s Touch 

My Lady’s Money 

The Evil Genius 

The Guilty River 


.30 


.20 


.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

,10 

.10 

.15 

.10 

.20 

10 

.10 

10 

.10 

.20 

.10 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.10 

.10 

.10 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.10 

.10 

.10 

.20 

.20 

.10 

.20 

20 

.10 

.10 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

,.20 

,.20 

,.20 

,.20 

,.20 

..20 

..20 

..20 


BY THOMAS CARLYLE 


486 


491 

5U0 


503 
608 
.514 
5'20 
522 
525 
528 
541 
5 16 
550 
561 
571 
578 


630 

633 

636 

643 

646 

649 

652 

656 

658 


661 


6 


B! 

Iji'l SS! 


Revolution, 


History of French 
Parts, each 

Past and Present 2|liii 

The Diamond Necklace ; and Mira- 

bean 21 

Chartism 2p!3 Pe 

Sartor Resiirtiis 2|l 

Early Kings of Norway. 

Jean Paul Friedrich Richter l(lV4 C; 

Goethe, and Miscoll neous F.s>ays, . . l,L'l ft 

Life of Heyne i»t '; '' 

Voltaire and Novalb. Itli'; P 

Heroe.s, and Hero-Worship *llt,l 1 


Signs of the Ti.mes l.’1| 

German Literature L 

Portraits of John Knox li 

Count Cagliostro, etc 1 ! 


•) j 

1^15 1 
Wi 1 


680 


44 

4ft 

Vol. II 

...26| B 

591 

H 


4 4 

Vol. HI 

610 

a 

44 

ii 

Vol. IV 

. ..20P 

619 

a 

44 

44 

Vol. V 

...201 

622 

(( 

44 

44 

Vol. VI. ... 

...20l 

626 

4i 

44 

4ft 

Vol. VII... 

...20:10 

628 

44 

44 

44 

Vol. Vi II.. 

...20i 


Life of Joiin Sterling 20 

Latter-Day Pamphlets 20 

Life of Schiller 20 ' 

Oliver Cromwell, Vol. 1 25 I 

“ “ Vol. II 251 

“ “ Vol. Ill 2.5 

Characteristics and other Essays. . . 15 
Corn Law Rhymes and other Es.says. 15 
Baillie the Govenanti r and other Es- 
says 15 

Dr. Francia and other Essays 13 


m 




I'Sl 


36)5 
378 
441 
463 
467 
471 
484 
488 
491 
501 
50() 
512 
517 
519 
524 
527 
5'29 
532 
i 539 
i 5 13 
10 I 548 
10 i 553 
20 559 
20 i 562 
20 ' 570 
15 I 576 
10 1 687 
10 ! 601 
20 : 603 
10 1 611 


BY J. EENIMORE COOPER 

The Last of the Mohicans 20 j 

The Spy 20 ! 

The Pathfinder 26 

Homeward Bound .20 

Home as Found 20 

The Deerslayer 30 

The Prairie 26 

The Pioneer ’2l> 

The Two Admirals 2l 

The Water- Witch 21' 

The Red Rover 26 

The Pilot 20 

Wing and Wing 26 

Wyandotte 26 

Heidenmauer 26 

The Headsman 26 

The Bravo 26 

Lionel Lincoln 26 

Wept of Wish-ton-Wish 20 

Afloat and Ashore 20 

Miles Wallinsford 20 

The Monikins 20 

Mercedes of Castile 20 

The Sea Lions 20 

The Crater 20 

Oak Openings 20 

Satan stoe 26 

The Chain-Bearer 20 

Way’s of the Hour 20 

Precaution 20 

Redskius 25 

Jack Tier IW 


1-1 


3 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 


242 


BY VICTOR CHERBULIEZ 

Samuel Brohl &, Co 20 


i BY REV. JAS. FREEMAN CLARK 

167 Anti-Slavery Days 20 

BY S. T. COLERIDGE 

23 Poems 80 

BY HUGH CONWAY 

120 Called Back 15 

4(12 Dark Days 15 

til2 Ciirriston’s Gift 10 

6l7 Paul Vargas: a Mystery. 10 

OjI a I'amily Affair , 20 

607 Story of a Sculptor 10 

6'(2 Slings and Arrows 10 

'^15 A Cardinal Sin 20 

745 Living or Dead 20 

760 Somebody’s Story 10 

BY KINAHAN CORNWALLIS 

409 Adrift with a Vengeance 25 

BY R. CRISWELL 

’850 Grandfather Lickehingle 20 

If BY R. H. DANA, JR. 

464 Two Years before the Mast 20 

BY DANTE 

845 Dante’s Visioi\ of Hell, Purgatory, 


IF 


and Paradise. 

BY FLORA A. DARLING 


.20 


BY ALPHONSE DAUDET 

478 Tartarin of Tarascon 20 

604 Sidonie 20 

613 Jack ! 20 

615 The Little Good-for-Nothing 20 

645 The Nabob .26 

BY REV. C. H. DAVIES, D.D. 

453 Mystic London 20 

BY THE DEAN OF ST. PAUL’S 

431 Life of Spenser lO 

BY C. DEDANS 

475 A Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing 20 

BY REV. C. F. DEEMS, D.D. 

704 Evolution 20 

BY DANIEL DEFOE 

428 Robinoon Crusoe 25 

BY THOS. DE QUINCEY 

20 The Spanish Nun 10 

BY CARL DETLEF 

27 Irene; or, The Lonely ifanor 20 

BY PROF. D0V7DEN 

404 Life of Southey 10 

BY JOHN DRYDEN 

498 Poems 30 

BY THE “DUCHESS” 


260 Mrs. Darling’s War Letters 20 

BY JOYCE DARRELL 

"815 Winifred Power 20 

} BY CHARLES DICKENS 

' 10 Oliver Twist 20 

38 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

75 Child’s History of England 20 

91 Pickwick Papers, 2 Parts, each 20 

"140 Tlie Cricket on the Hearth 10 

144 Old Curiosity Shop, 2 Parts, each... 15 

li 150 Barnaby lludge, 2 Parts, each 15 

158 . D.tvid Copi)erfield, 2 Parts, each 20 

; 170 Hard Times 20 


i’. li)2 Great Expectations 20 

K 20 1 Martin Chnzzlewit, 2 Parts, each. ...20 

“ 210 Americin Notes 20 

" 219 Doinbey and Son. 2 Parts, each 20 

i, 2’23 Little Dorrit, 2 Parts, each 20 

I ■ 228 Our Mutual Friend. 2 Parts, each... 20 

2-31 Nicho as Nickleby, 2 Parts, each 20 

IjT 234 Pictures from Italy 10 

- 237 T ti e Boy at M ugby 10 

^ 214 Bleak Hou.se, 2 Parts, each 20 

216 Sketches of the Young Couples 10 

^"261 Master Huinphrey’s Clock 10 

V gjjY rpjjg Haunted House, etc 10 

I; 270 The Mudfog Papers, etc 10 

273 Sketche.s by Boz 20 

. 274 A Christmas Carol, etc 15 

‘ !J82 Uncommoi’cial Traveller 20 

288 Somebody’s Luggage, etc. 10 

tr‘ 293 The Battle of Life*, etc 10 

997 Mystery' of Edwin Drood 20 

b 998 Reprinted Pieces 20 

I .302 No Thoroughfare 15 

fc 487 Tales of Two Idle Apprentices 10 


53 Portia 20 

76 Molly Bawu 20 

78 Phyllis 20 

86 Monica 10 

90 Mrs. Geoffrey 20 

92 Airy Fairy Lilian 20 

126 Loys, Lord Beresford 20 

132 Moonshine and M.arguerites 10 

162 Faith and Unfaith 20 

168 Beauty’s Daughters 20 

234 Ro.ssrnoyne 20 

451 Doris 20 

477 A We<.k in Killarney It' 

530 In Durance Vile It 

(518 Dick’s Sweetheart ; or, 0 Tender 

Dolores” 20 

621 A Maiden all Forloim 10 

624 A Passive Crime 10 

721 Lady Brankstnere 20 

735 A Mental Struggle 20 

737 The Haunted Chamber 10 

792 Her W. ek s Amusement 10 

802 Lady Valworth's Diamonds 20 

BY LORD DJFFERIN 

93 Letters from High Latitudes 20 

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS 

761 Count of Mnnte Cristo, Part 1 20 

761 Count of Monte Oisto, Part II 20 

775 The Three Guardsmen 20 

786 Twenty Years After 20 

BY MRS. ANNIE EDWARDES 

681 A Girton Girl ...20 

BY M. BETHAM-EDWARDS _ 

203 Disarmed 16 

663 The Flower of Doom W 


LOVELL’S LBBRARY. 

X^iVT7I£lS''ir IBSUES. 


872 Taken at tlie Flood, by Braddon. . .20 

873 Aspliodel, byM. E. Braddon 20 

874 Nine of Hearts, by B. L. Farjeon . .20 

875 Little Tii’penny, by Bariug-Gould..lO 

876 The Witch’s Head, by H. Eider 

Haggard 20 

877 The Doctor’s Wife, by Braddon . . 20 

878 Only a Clod, bv .M. E. Braddon ... 20 
S79 Sir Jasper’s Tcaant, by Braddon. ..20 
J80 Lady’s Mile, by IL E. Braddon .... 20 
831 Birds of Prey, by M. E. Braddon. . . 20 
<332 Charlotte’s Eihoritauce, by M. E. 

Braddon 20 

3S3 Rupert Godwin, by M. E. Braddon.20 
8S-1 Tile Sou of Monte Cristo, Part I. . .20 
634 Tne Son of Monte Cristo, Part II. 20 

835 Monte Cristo and his Wife 20 

886 Strangers and Pilgrims, by M. E. 

Braddon 20 

837 A Strange World, by Braddon — 20 
883 Mount Royal, by M. E. Braddon... 20 
839 J ust as I am, by M. E. Braddon. . . 20 

890 Dead Men’s Shoes, by Braddon . 20 

891 The Countess oi Monte Cristo, P’t 1.20 

891 The Countess of Monte Cristo, 

P’t 11 20 

892 Hostages to Fortune, by M. E. 

Braddon 20 

893 Fenton’s Quest, by M. E. Braddon.20 

894 Tne Cloven Foot, by M. E. Braddon. 20 

895 Moonshine, by Frederic Allison 

Tapper 20 

896 Marjorie, by B. M. Clay 20 

897 Shirley, by Charlotte Bronte 20 

893 Joan Wentworth, by Katherine S. 

Macquoid 20 

899 Love and Life, by Yonge 20 

900 Jess, by 11. Rider Haggard 20 

901 Charles Auchester, by E. Berger. 20 

902 The Mystery, by Mrs. Henry Wood.20 

903 The Master Passion, by Marryat..20 

904 A Lucky Disappointment, by Flor- 

ence Marryat 10 

905 Her Lord and Master, by Marry at.. 20 

906 My Own Child, by Marryat 20 

907 NoIntention8,by Florence Mari’yat.20 

908 Written in Fire, by Marryat 20 

909 A Little Stepson, by Marryat 10 

910 With Cupid’s Eyes, by Marryat 20 

911 Not Like Other Girls, by Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 20 

912 Robert Ord s Atonement, by Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 20 

913 Gitdith Gaunt, by Charles Reade. .20 

914 A Terrible Temptation, by Reade. .20 

915 Very Hard Cash, by Charles Reade. 20 

916 It is Never Too Late to Mend, by 

Charles Reade 20 

917 The Knightsbridge Mystery, by 

Charles Reade 10 

918 A W'oman Hater, by Chas. Reade.. 20 

919 Readiana, by Charles Reade 10 

920 John : A Love Story, by Mrs. Oli- 

phant 20 


921 The Merry Men, by Stevenson 20 

922 A Willful Maid, by Bertha M. Clay.20! 

923 Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce, by 

Bertha M. Clay -20 

924 Karma, by A. P. Sinnett. 20 

925 A Poor Gentleman, by Oliphant .. .20 

926 Clarlbel’s Love Story, by B. M. Clay 20 

927 Pure Gold, by Mrs. Lovett-Cameron.20 
923 Thrown on the World, by B.M Clay.20 

929 Under a Shadow, by B. M. Clay. . .20 

930 A Struggle for a Ring, by B-JI. Clay.20 

931 Why Not? by Florence Marrj’at. ..20 

932 Hilary’s Folly, by Bertha Til Elay. .20 

933 A Haunted Life, by Bertha M. Ciay.20 

934 A Woman’s Love Story, by Clay.. . .20 

935 Ten Thousand a \ ear, by Warren, 

P’t 1 20 

935 Ten Thousand a Y"ear- by Warren, 
Ft II 20 

935 Ten Thousand a Year, by Warren, 

P’t HI 20 

936 Maid Of Sker, by R. D. Blackmore..20 

937 My Sister the Actress, by Marryat.. 20 

938 Captain Norton’s Diary, by Marryat.lO 

939 The Girls of Feversham,byMarryat 20 

940 The Root of All Evil, by Marryat.. 20 

941 Dawn, by H. Rider Haggard 20 

942 Facing the Footlights, by Marryat.20 

943 Petronel, by Florence Marryat 20 

944 A Star and a Heart, by Marryat... 10 

945 Ange, by Florence Marryat 20 

946 A Harvest of Wild Oats,by Marryat.20 

947 The Poison of Asps, by F. Marryat.lO 
943 Fair-Haired Alda, by F. Marryat. . . 20 

949 The Heir Presumptive, by Marryat.20 

950 Under the Lilies and Roses, by 

Florence Marryat 20 

951 The Heart of Jane Warner, by 

Florence Marryat 20 

952 Love’s Conflict, by Marryat, P’t I. .20 

952 Love’s Conflict, by Marryot, Ft II..20 

953 Phyllida, by Florence Marryat 20 

S54 Out of his Reckoning, by Marryat.lO 
955 CradockNowell,byBlackmore,P’t 1.20 

955 Cradock NoAveli, by R. D. Black- 

more, P’t II 20 

956 The Woodlanders, by Hardy 20 

957 The Dead Secret, by Wilkie Collins.20 

953 Sabina Zembra, by William Black.. 20 
9,59 Wee Wific, by R. N. Carey 20 

960 W’^ooed and Married, by Carey 20 

961 Springhaven, byR. D. Blackmore. .20 

962 Knight-Errant, by Edna Lyall 20 

963 Her Jobnnie, by Violet Whyte 20 

964 Far from the Madding CroAvd, by 

Thomas Hardy 20 

965 The Lilies of Florence, by G. Sand. 20 

966 The Story of Our Mess, Tribune 

PHze War Stories 20 

987 The Three Bummers, Tribune Prize 
War StoiHes 20 

968 Bound by a Spell, by Hugh Conway.20 

969 A Woman’s War, by B. M. Clay 20 

910 Against her Will, by A. M. Boward.20 


Any of the above can be obtained from all booksellers and newsdealers, or will 
be sent free by mail, on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

Nos. 14 AND 1C Vesey Stkeet, New York. 



' I e treatmeut of many thousands of 
I; of those chronic weaknesses and 
' essing' ailments peculiar to females, 
le Invalids’ Hotel and Surgical In- 
to, Buffalo, N. Y., has afforded a 
' experience in nicely adapting and 
i fc)ughly testing remedies for the 
I of woman’s peculiar maladies. 

Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
l is the outgrowth, or result, of this 
t and valuable experience. Thou- 
B of testimonials received from pa- 
p and from physicians who‘‘havo 
a it in the more aggravated and 
nate cases which had baffled their 
prove it to be the most wonderful 
tay ever devised for the relief and 
of suffering women. It is not re- 
nended as a cure-all,” but as 
perfect Specilio for woman’s 
liar ailments. 

I a powerful, iiivif^oratiiig^ 

c it imparts strength to the whole 
m, and to the uterus, or womb and 
>pendages, in particular. For over- 
;ed, “worn-out,” “run-down,” de- 
,ted teachers, milliners, dressmak- 
jeamstresses, “shop-girls,”, house- 
srs, nursing mothers, and feeble 
en generally. Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
a-iption is the greatest earthly boon, 
r unequalled as an appetizing cor- 
Vnd restorative tonic. It promotes 
tion and assimilation of food, cures 
», weakness of stomach, indiges- 
bloating and eructations of gas. 
a sootliiii^ and streii^tUcii- 
aerviue, “ Favorite Prescription ” 
Equalled and is invaluable in allay- 
md subduing nervous cxcitabilitj", 
bility, exhaustion, prostration, hys- 
spasras and other distressing, nerv- 
rmptoms commonly attendant upon 
ional and organic disease of the 
b. It induces refreshing sleep and 
^cs mental anxiety and despond- 

i Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
ts a Icg^itimate medicine, 

ully compounded by an e.xperienc- 
id skillful physician, and adapted 
tman’s delicate organization. It is 
y vegetable in its ^composition and 


perfectly harmless in it£, etfeett in any 
condition of the sj'stem. 

“Favorite Prescriptiou ” is a 
positive cure tor the most compli- 
cated and obstinate cases of leucorrhea, 
or “ whites,” excessive flowing at month- 
ly periods, painful menstruation, unnat- 
ural suppressions, prolapsus or falling 
of the womb, weak back, “ female weak- 
ness,” anteversion,retroversion, bearing- 
down sensations, chronic congestion, in- 
flammation and ulceration of the womb, 
inflammation, pain and tenderness in 
ovaries, accompanied with internal heat. 

Ill pregnancy, “ Favorite Prescrip- 
tion” is a “ mother’s cordial,” relieving 
nausea, weakness of stomach and otlier 
distressing symptoms common to that 
condition. If its use is kept up in the 
latter months of gestition, it so prepares 
the system for deh.ery as to greatly 
lessen, and many times almost entirely 
do away with the su;fcrings of that try- 
ing ordeal. 

“ Favorite Prescription,” when 
taken in connection with the use of 
Dr. Pierce’s Golden Medical Discovery, 
and small laxative doses of Dr. Pierce’s 
Puj'gative Pellets (Little Liver Pillsl, 
cures Liver, Kidney and Bladder dis- 
eases. Their combined use also removes 
blood taints, and abolishes cancerous 
and scrofulous humors from the system. 

Ti*eating tiie Wrong Disease.— 
Many times women call on their family 
physicians, suffering, as they imagine, “ 
one from dyspepsia, another from heart 
disease, another from liver or kidney 
disease, another from nervous exhaus- 
tion or prostration, another with pain 
here or there, and in this way they all 
present alike to themselves and their 
easy-going and indifferent, or over-busy 
doctor, separate and distinct diseases, 
for which he prescribes his pills and. 
potions, assuming them to be such, 
when, in reality, they arc all only sj/rap- 
toms caused by some womb disorder. 
The physician, ignorant of the cause of 
suffering, encourages his practice until 
large bills arc made. The suffering pa- 
tient gets no better, but probably worse 
by reason of the delay, wrong treatment 
and consequent complications. A prop- 
er medicine, like Dr, Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription, directed to the cause would 
have entirely removed the disease, there- 
by dispelling all those distressing symp- 
toms, and instituting comfort instead of 
prolonged misery. 

“Favorite Prescription” is the 

onlj' medicine for women sold, by drug- 
gists, under a positive guarantecy 
from the manufacturers, that it will 
give satisfaction in everj^ case, or money 
will be refunded. This guarantee has 
been printed on the bottle- Avrapper, and 
faithfully carried out for many years. 
Liarge bottles (100 doses) $1.00, or 
six bottles for $5.00. 

Send ten cents in stamps for Dr. 
Pierce’s large, illustrated Treatise (160 
pages) on Diseases of Women. Address, 
World’s Dispensary Medical Associationi 
No. 66»^IAIN aXHEET, BUFFALO^ N, F. 




FIRST PRIZE 


DIPLOMA 

Centennial Exhibi- 
tion, 1S7G ; Montreal, 

ISSl and 1882. 

The enviable po- 
sition Sohmer & 

Co. hold among 
American Fiano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 

ARB AX I»RBSB?<X XHB 

AND PREFERRED BY THE 


They are U! 
in Conservatori 
Schools, and Sc 
inaries, on s; 
count of their 
perior tone a 
unequaled du 
bility. 

The SOHMl 
Piano is a spe( 
favorite with 1 
leading musicii 
and critics. 


MOSX I»OI»lTBAR 

LEADING ARTIST 


SOHMER & CO., Mauufacturers, No. 149 to 15.5 E. 14th St., N. Y. 


»THE B&ST- Fg=t TEfipriFt-f^W5--ftHP Cfl\FrED 

'AWIITEfUREDEUf”''^ — ^ — 


i::ar.qes 

Makb 

— IM— 




OVER 

lOO 


'©TOILETS?^ . 


ADAPTED-TO^ EVERY • TASTE- AMD- U5J 

«^0LD»EVERYWt1ERE:*^ i 


rfc»>Po(>uli«r:tyane SALt '«5 *CASHMERt-BOUQUET txe«^ HuU ct try Toiled Soap h) the Worfd. 


THE CELEBRATED 


iOHHEB 

GRAND, SQUARE AND UPRIGHT PIANOS 





























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